Forever Young
by alwaysflying
Summary: AU. Mark is five, and scared. Roger, Collins, and Benny find him on the street. And with time, they become more of a family than the Cohens ever were.
1. Meeting Mini Roger

"Hey, Roger, get up!" yells Collins, pounding on his friend's bedroom door. "Come on, Roger, we said we'd meet Benny at the Life Café!"

Roger groggily sits up and shakes his hair out of his eyes. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbles, feeling much like a fifteen-year-old version of himself, which is nothing new for him. He feels like that all the time. "Keep your pants on, Collins. By the way, can you throw me mine?"

Collins snorts. "No way'm I coming in there, Roger. Last time I was in there, something bit me."

"What something?" laughs Roger. "_Me_?"

Collins shrugs. "Didn't stick around to find out," he points out reasonably. "Anyways, just put on your pants and get out here, unless you want everyone to know that you wear anime-themed boxers."

"Hey," argues Roger. "They're _quality television_."

"Not that you'd know," Collins retorts. "'No, Collins, let's not get a TV – let's get a heater instead!' Smooth, Roger. It's _August_."

"Shut up and lemme get dressed," mumbles Roger, who often recognizes the stupidity in that particular decision. And moments later, he's tugged on a pair of jeans that's comfortable – for now, anyway. "Kay. Let's go."

And they step outside, feeling the warm air for once, because of course Roger had the great idea to put the unwanted heater in the window, meaning, naturally, that there is never any way for them to get air, even if the heater's off. So they spend as much time outside as possible – on the roof, on the street, in the garden of the Life Café.

By the time Roger and Collins get to the block on which the café is located, they're a half hour late, and they see Benny's Range Rover pulling up to the block.

"Race ya!" yells the still-acting-like-a-fifteen-year-old blonde, and dashes ahead…

and trips…

on a huddled mass on the ground.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing on the street!" yells Roger – and pauses.

Upon taking a closer look, Roger determines that the object of his fall is not, in fact, a homeless man – but rather, a small child.

"Oh, dear."

Collins and Roger step backwards. The little boy on the ground has tears pouring down his cheeks, and he looks up at Roger. "I'm sorry," he sniffles, and wipes the tears away.

Roger, startled, stares at him. "No, no," he says in a voice that isn't quite his. "It was my fault. Really." He extends a hand to the boy, hoping to help him up, but the boy shakes his head.

"Nuh-uh," he says. "I shouldn't've been lying on the ground like that. Just that Daddy said I shouldn't move and I didn't want to disobey him…" The child trails off. He does not take Roger's hand.

Collins blinks. "Your father told you to just sit on the street?" he asks, baffled.

"Yes," replies the boy softly. "He said I'm stupid and un-nessity," he says, stumbling over the word, "and I shouldn't bother him all the time and I should sit outside with the garbage bags."

Collins and Roger stare at him.

Collins is the first to react. "_Damn_."

"How old are you? What's your name?" asks Roger.

"Five," says the boy. "I think. And I'm Mark." He looks up at Roger. "You have pretty eyes," he observes.

All of a sudden, a new voice says, "Roger? Collins? What the hell is going on?"

Benny.

Mark buries his little blond head in his too-large white T-shirt.

"Oh, uh," begins Collins, "This is Mark. We found him sitting on the street. _Roger _here tripped over him. Mark, this is Benny."

Benny raises an eyebrow. "What's he doing sitting on the street? Begging?"

"_No_," snaps Roger, "his father apparently told him to sit down here with the garbage bags."

Benny rolls his eyes. "Right," he agrees. "And then, I bet, he rolled around them." Benny indicates the marks all over the small boy's body.

"Mark, where did you get this from?" asks Collins gently, pointing to a black-and-blue mark occupying most of the boy's cheek.

"Daddy gave it to me," says Mark. "I made his coffee bad. It was too cold. Too much milk. He said I should learn a lesson."

Benny softens. "What's your last name, kid? Where do you live?" he asks.

"I don't know," says Mark. "Please don't hurt me…"

Roger's jaw drops.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Benny promises. "Do you know which building is yours?"

Mark shakes his head.

"Okay," says Collins. "He can't just sit out here alone, can he?"

"_No_," chorus Benny and Roger.

"So let's take him to the café with us. Or just go home. Are you hungry?" he asks the boy, kneeling down next to him so they are of a height.

Mark shakes his head vehemently. "Daddy says I… Daddy says being hungry is bad," Mark admits. "He says if I feel hungry it's because I don't have anything to do."

"Okay," says Benny, breaking the silence that follows the child's remark, "So he's hungry. Come on, Mark," he says, helping the boy to his feet. "Let's get you some food."

Ignoring Mark's protests, Benny, Collins, and Roger usher the boy into the Life Café, sit him on Collins's lap, and order the works, courtesy of Benny.


	2. It Almost Feels Like A Family

The food is set in front of a very quiet Mark, and he stares at it wistfully. Noticing the three pairs of eyes on him, he turns around to face Benny, Roger, and Collins. "What?" he wonders. _Did I do something wrong? Is it pun'shmit time? _

Roger looks at him sympathetically. "Aren't'cha gonna eat?" he asks. For once, Roger is grateful for the loud atmosphere of the Life Café. It allows him to feel comfortable in that he can't be overheard in this particular situation.

Mark shakes his head, letting long blond hair flip from each side of his head. "Daddy says I can't eat or I get a pun'shmit," he says quietly. "Not hungry." As he says it, his stomach rumbles. Roger, who normally would snicker about such an obvious lie, recognizes the gravity of the situation and keeps his mouth closed.

"You have to eat," Collins tells Mark gently. "It's okay. You're not gonna get a punishment. I promise. Your daddy's not here anyway. Just us."

Mark's eyes widen. "Really?" he asks. "I can eat? No pun'shmit?"

"No pun'shmit," Benny agrees. "I mean – punishment. Damnit, Collins, stop fucking laughing!" he snaps, punching his friend in the shoulder. Mark watches the exchange with his big blue eyes, obviously recognizing the punch as a pun'shmit.

"He gets pun'shmit too?" Mark asks, looking scared.

Benny cocks his head. "Huh? – Oh. No, Mark, no, that's just playing. I mean, I was just joking around with him, and so I punched him, but not to hurt him."

Mark obviously doesn't understand, but he nods as if he does. "'Kay," he says, and returns to staring at the plates in front of him. "What's this?" he asks, pointing to an unidentifiable green substance.

Roger shrugs. Benny shrugs. Collins volunteers, "I think it's guacamole. You dip this in that," he explains, pointing at a chip and then at the sauce. "See, look." He picks up a chip from one of Mark's plates and zooms it through the guacamole before bringing it up to the little boy's lips. "Open," he instructs firmly, knowing that Mark does not want to eat, fearing pun'shmit.

Mark opens his mouth obediently, and shudders when Collins releases the chip into his mouth. "Chew," Collins says, and Mark does, trembling. When he's finished eating the chip, his muscles tense as he awaits a blow.

When none comes, Mark looks up. "What – don't I get pun'sh – "

Collins sighs. "Mark, you're not gonna get a punishment. It's okay. Did you like that? What you just ate?"

Mark nods hesitantly.

"Okay," says Collins. "So take another one, or try something else. "This over here, this is sweet potatoes. It's very good."

And soon enough, Benny and Roger join in, pointing out the various dishes and explaining what's what, and how they'll taste. Wide-eyed, Mark stares at them, still shuddering, but eating so as not to disobey Collins. When he's done, he watches in awe as Benny and Roger slide out of the booth and stand up, followed by Collins on the other side. Mark stays where he is.

"What's wrong, little man?" Roger asks. "You're gonna come with us, 'kay?"

Mark shakes his head. "Daddy's gonna be mad," he whimpers.

Benny reaches into the booth and scoops Mark up into his arms. The boy is amazingly tiny, and weighs no more than the average college textbook. "Come on, Marky," Benny says. "We're gonna go home and get you cleaned up. Kay?" he asks.

Mark, still whimpering, nods his tiny head. "What's your name?" he asks softly.

Benny looks down at the boy in his arms. "Oh! We didn't say our names yet? I'm Benny," he says apologetically. "Benjamin Coffin the Third, actually, but you can call me Benny."

"Benny," echoes Mark. "Ben-ny." He looks at Collins, just next to Benny.

"I'm Collins," he says. "Well, my name's Tom, but everyone calls me Collins."

Mark nods. "Col-lins. Collins. Collins. Benny and Collins."

He looks over at Roger, who's standing off to the side. Roger can't ignore Mark for even a second – he finds himself strangely compelled to the little boy. "I'm Roger," he says at last.

This name Mark has no trouble pronouncing. "Roger, Roger, Roger, Roger," he says with a smile. "I like your name. You have a pretty name and pretty eyes." Wrapping one arm around Benny's neck to steady himself, Mark reaches out and touches Roger's hair. "Soft," he observes quietly. Then he seems to realize what he's just done, and jerks his hand back. "I'm sorry!" he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm – "

"Hey," says Roger gently, taking the child out of Benny's arms and into his own. "It's okay. Really. I'm not mad, you can touch my hair whenever you want." He grins at the little boy. "_Only _you, though. Four million women in this city wanna touch it – plus Collins – but only you can, kay?"

Mark smiles a little bit. "Okay," he says.

Just then, the door of the Life Café opens and a familiar slender figure walks in, wearing a white leather jacket and short skirt. "Hey, guys!" Maureen greets her friends. "Benny, I found that bag you – what the fuck? Who's the kid?"

Mark buries his head in Roger's shoulder, wrapping his arms around the man's neck. Roger sighs deeply. "This is Mark," he says. "We found him on the street. His dad told him to just sit out there with the _garbage_. Where were you last night?" he asks, distracted.

Maureen shrugs. "I stayed over at Nate's," she says, naming her current boyfriend.

Benny nods. "I was at Allison's. I think I'm gonna break up with her, though."

"Dude," points out Roger, completely off-topic, "She's _rich_. She pays for our heat, electricity – "

"If you say heat again, I'm gonna kill you," Collins interjects. Roger rolls his eyes.

The four adults are suddenly distracted when a whimper sounds from Roger's shoulder. They glance down at the boy, who is chewing on his fingernail. "Did you – did you forget me?" he whispers when all attention is back on him. "Who's she?" he asks, pointing to Maureen.

"No, I didn't forget you, silly," says Roger, unable to resist. "I was just talking to Drama Queen over here."

"I'm Maureen," the young woman says to Mark. "I live with Collins and Roger and Benny."

"And Mark," Collins and Roger say in unison. Continues Roger, "There's no way I'm leaving him on the street, I mean. And we were just about to go take him home, get him cleaned up. Let's do that now."

Maureen looks at Mark's big blue eyes as he stares at her, transfixed. "Can I carry him?" she asks pleadingly, pouting.

"Hmm," says Roger, bouncing Mark up and down in his arms. "What do you say, little man? You want Reeny to carry you?"

Mark shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. Want _you_. Not her."

Roger shrugs, rubbing circles on the boy's back. "You heard the kid, Mo. Can't argue with that logic."

Maureen rolls her eyes. "What_ever_," she says. "I'll just have to catch him unaware some other time."

Roger laughs.


	3. Bathtime and Scars

As it happens, Roger has to carry Mark up the stairs to the sixth-floor apartment that he shares with Collins, Benny, Maureen, and now the five-year-old. When they reaches the top, as Benny struggles to get "this damn door" to open, Mark peers down all the stairs and sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and clutches Roger tightly. "Hey," says Roger gently, "Don't be scared, kay?" He steps back so that Mark can't see the stairs, just as Benny gets the door open, and they enter.

"Big," is Mark's first word upon entering the loft. "Big, big, big. 'S big."

Roger sets him down on the enormous table to let Mark get a better look. After a few moments of struggle, Mark gets to his feet and turns in a slow circle, so as to see the entire apartment at once. "'S big," he says again. "Do you live here?" he asks Roger, a foot smaller than him even standing on the table.

Roger nods. "Yeah," he says.

"What's it like where you live?" asks Benny. Turning to Roger, Collins, and Maureen, he points out, "I mean, if he's impressed by this shithole, it's gotta be pretty bad, eh?"

"BENNY!" yells Maureen, accompanied by Roger and Collins. As they scream, Mark's hands fly up to his ears, knocking off his tiny square glasses. Squinting, Mark gets down on his hands and knees on the table and feels around for what he's dropped, whimpering softly. "Pun'shmit, pun'shimt, pun'shmit," Mark murmurs softly. Only Maureen hears him.

"Punishment?" she asks. "What the hell's he talking about?"

Collins sighs deeply, shuddering with anger towards Mark's father for causing the little boy to be so afraid. "His father, apparently, punishes him for the smallest things," Collins says quietly. "Mark was scared of Benny!"

"I was, too, when I first met him," drawls Maureen. Benny smacks her bony rear end playfully, and she bares her teeth at him. Mark watches the exchange with wide eyes.

"And," Collins adds, "Mark was afraid to eat because he was taught that eating gets him a punishment."

"_Eating_?"

"Yeah," says Roger, who up until this point was watching Mark unblinkingly. He bites back a remark about Maureen not eating either: this is neither the right time nor the right company. Instead, he suggests, "Why don't we get Mark a bath? I'll – uh, hang on. Marky?" he asks gently.

The tiny boy looks up.

Roger, eyes loving, wonders aloud, "Can you take a bath by yourself?"

Mark looks from Roger to Benny to Collins – and then back to Roger. "Nuh-uh," he says. "Daddy says I can't do stuff by myself, 'm too dumb."

Maureen gasps dramatically. "Maureen," hisses Benny through gritted teeth, "This is not the time." Maureen nods and is quiet.

"So you need help in the bath?" asks Roger, trying to hide his disappointment. Bathing a five-year-old was never on his list of goals.

"Uh-huh," says Mark. "I mean – if you wanna gimme a bath. Daddy only game me baths one time a week, 'f I was good."

"M'kay," says Roger, trying to ignore the fury he has towards Mark's father. Instead, he says calmly, "Marky – can I call you Marky?"

Mark nods.

"Okay, Marky, who do you want to help you in the bath?" he asks, rather smugly, because he knows what the answer will be. Or he thinks he knows.

"You'n Benny," says Mark matter-of-factly. "'N Collins, 'f he wants t'come."

"Not Maureen?" asks Benny, smirking slightly.

Mark shakes his head fervently. "Nuh-uh," he insists. "She…" he trails off, leaning in closer to Roger so that he's right up against the father figure's ear. "She's scary 'n Daddy says I shouldn't talk t'girls 'cause they're gonna be mean t'me," he says quickly. It's loud, so Benny and Collins pretend they didn't hear – even though they did, of course. Maureen, on the other hand, is gaping at Mark with her mouth hanging open. Mark whimpers.

"He told you not to talk to girls?" Maureen demands. "How are you ever supposed to get a girlfriend?"

"That's pretty far off, Reen," Collins points out. "And look how scared he is."

Sure enough, Mark's face is hidden in his lap, and he is refusing all contact except for Roger's. "Hey, buddy," offers Benny, thinking that it might be a good idea for Mark to get accustomed to others as well as Roger. "Marky? You want your bath now? We have bubbles."

Mark peeks up. "Bub-buls?"

"Oh, you're missing out, kid," says Collins, who spends more time with bubbles than Mark is allowed to know about, or, in fact, could even comprehend. "Come on, we'll show you the bath."

And with that, Roger and Maureen (with Benny's, or in fact Alison's money) set off to buy Mark an outfit that would fit him, while Collins prepares the bath and Benny prepares Mark _for _the bath.

"Kay, Marky, can you take off your shirt, please?"

Mark hesitates, mumbles something along the lines of "Daddy says I can't," but then tugs it over his head obediently.

Benny gasps.

Mark's back is littered with scars and bruises. There are cuts on his shoulders that are open and bleeding, but for the most part his back is a mess of black-and-blue marks, with a long white scar that starts at his shoulderblades and disappears into the clothing Mark still has on.

"Mark," says Benny carefully, running his finger over the long white one, "what is this scar from?"

Mark twitches. "D-d-daddy says it's 'cause I was bein' bad. I – I fo'got to call 'im Sir in fronta' his friend Mimi."

"And that's why you got this scar?" demands Benny, disbelieving.

Something about Benny's sharp tone startles Mark, and he corrects himself, "N-no. Also I dropped a plate and the glass cut Daddy's toe." He shivers a little bit in recollection, afraid secretly that now that Benny knows how bad he is, maybe he won't want to keep Mark after all. But – Roger – Roger likes him, right? Roger won't let him leave… but what if Benny tells Roger what he found out? Mark whimpers in fear.

Benny realizes that Mark is scared, and so he sighs. "It's okay, Mark. Does the scar still hurt?"

Mark whispers, "Uh-huh."

"Well, when you take a bath it might feel a little better for awhile. Kay? So you wanna get these off, right?" Benny points to Mark's shorts.

The little boy nods and takes them off without Benny having to ask, then folding them and placing them on the table next to him. He shifts so that he's sitting in a pretzel formation, but Benny stops him. "I think the bath's ready," he says. "So just get those off, and your socks and shoes too, and you can sit in it. Okay?"

Mark nods. He hurries to take the rest of his clothes off, and lets Benny lift him off the table and then carry him into the bathtub. He doesn't quite catch the look that Benny exchanges with Collins as Mark's back becomes exposed to the other man, too preoccupied with standing hesitantly at the end of the tub.

"What's wrong?" asks Collins. "You can get in now."

"O-kay," replies the child, and he dips a toe into the sparklingly clear water. "'S warm!" he exclaims.

"Yeah," says Collins. "Didn't you ever take a hot bath before?"

Mark shakes his little blond head, and Collins sighs in sympathy. "Well, you'll get plenty of them now," he promises the child. "And hey, look at this."

Collins leans forward and spills a bottle into the water. Mark watches in awe as the chemical reacts with the water, and bubbles form. "Smell nice," whispers Mark, and he leans against the side of the bath. "Big bath."

"Yeah," agrees Collins. "Say 'thank you, Benny'."

Benny snorts as Mark recites the words in question, though not quite understanding.

"Actually," says Benny, "say 'thank you, Alison. I'm gonna break up with her.'"

Collins whines childishly. "Oh, come _on_, Benny! Why?"

Mark, distracted, plays with the bubbles in the bath. He feels oddly sure that he won't be punished for it, so he even puts some in his hair.

"Because," hisses Benny, "she's just awful in bed."

Collins bursts into laughter, and Mark looks up. Benny affectionately rubs Mark's hair and examines his palm afterwards. It is covered in bath bubbles. "Oh, _no_," he whines. When Collins continues laughing, Benny wipes the soap bubbles on his friend's shirt. Collins yelps in distaste.

"I'm gonna kill you, Benny," Collins threatens.

"Kill?" Mark repeats. "What's kill?"

Benny snickers. "It means hug," he suggests. "Go ahead, hug me, Collins." Collins awkwardly wraps his arms around Benny, making sure to get the soap bubbles all over Benny's clothing. Benny grimaces.

"Is hug bad?" Mark asks. The word is new to him, Benny realizes – he's never had a hug, been hugged before.

"Nah," says Collins. "It's good. Okay, Marky, hold out your arms."

Mark obeys and Collins scoops some bubbles off of his and Benny's shirts, then rubs them onto the little boy's arms. "Put them in the water," he instructs. Mark does so.

This routine continues for around a half hour, and when Mark finally exits the bathtub, Benny is forced to run across the street to buy a towel, seeing as there are none left in the loft and neither Benny nor Collins wishes to use their clothing to dry off the child – or risk the wrath of either Maureen or Roger in using either of theirs. When Mark is all warm and dry, he sits, wrapped in a towel, on the couch – waiting for Maureen and Roger to return.

Nobody anticipated that the moment Roger arrived, Mark would run forward and launch himself into the man's arms.


	4. Catechism Eliminated

**Author's Notes: Mark is five. Roger is twenty-three. Maureen is twenty-three also. Collins is twenty-eight. Benny is twenty-six. As for the other characters… well… I mentioned Mimi last chapter, so I'll just say that she's eighteen.**

Mark's towel falls when he flies into Roger's arms, and before Benny can say a word, Mark's hideous "pun'shmit is revealed for all to see." Maureen gasps, eyes wide, and Roger begins to shake with rage. "His father?" he mouths, not wanting to scare Mark by speaking the words aloud. Benny nods, and Collins looks at him curiously.

Roger looks at Mark. "Marky, sweetie, would you mind if Maureen took you into the other room so I can talk to Benny and Collins?" To an outraged-looking Maureen, he mouths, "I'll fill you in later."

Mark nods. "Whate'er you want, Roger," he says, looking up at Roger with awe-filled cerulean eyes. With that, Roger places the little boy in Maureen's outstretched arms, and watches skeptically as Maureen carries him into her bedroom.

Maureen is the only person in the loft who has her own room. Roger and Benny share a room, each with their own twin-size bed, and Collins tends to stay on the couch, or in a vacant bed when either Benny or Maureen stays at a lover's house overnight. So when Maureen opens the door to her bedroom, which is hers alone, Mark's tiny hands fly up to his eyes to protect them from the assault of pink.

As Maureen places Mark on a bed, he stares. "I – I get – thank you," he says quietly. "I never – Daddy didn't lemme sit on the bed, it was his…"

Maureen clenches her fists. "Oh, Mark, it's okay," she says. "You can sit on my bed. I don't care. Hey – you wanna stay in my bed with me tonight? I can cuddle you so you feel all safe and cozy and warm…"

Mark's face betrays no emotion, shocking in a five-year-old. "If – if that's what you want," he says carefully.

"What do _you _want, Mark?" Maureen asks, running her fingers through the boy's light blond hair, which is much cleaner than it was that morning.

"What – what?" Mark wonders. "What – whatever you want, 'Reen. – Can I call you Reen?" Suddenly he's trembling, as if he's scared Maureen's going to hit him.

"Sure, Marky." She plunges her hand into the shopping bag she has with her and reveals tiny, Mark-sized clothing: a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and a fuzzy blue-and-white striped scarf. "Wanna try these on?" she asks, holding out the jeans. "If they don't fit, let me know, and we can go back to the store together."

Mark takes the jeans from her and allows his newly-donned towel to drop to his ankles. "Oh," gasps Maureen. "You don't have – you don't have – don't you have underwear?" she asks, cheeks turning scarlet. Never before has talk of underwear embarrassed her in the slightest, but now – with a five-year-old – it's different.

"Daddy says – "

"Oh," Maureen murmurs. "Well. Are you – are you comfortable enough with just the jeans? Do you need – should I ask Roger or Collins or Benny – "

"Whatever you want," Mark replies. "I don't wanna – don't wanna be a both'r, 'n if I – if I'm always askin' for stuff, Roger's not gonna – not gonna want me anymore."

Maureen feels a tug at her heartstrings – the last time she'd felt it, it was when Collins had rejected her, three years ago, on the grounds of his homosexuality. But now it's sharper and more prominent than it had been back then, probably because now it's about someone else – someone helpless and scared. "Roger's always going to want you, Mark," she promises. "And I promise, if he ever doesn't, I'll take you in and you can be my little Marky, okay?"

Mark's face screws up in wonder. "You'd – you'd want me? Even though I'm dumb 'n don't listen 'n ugly 'n…"

"Mark."

Mark looks up to stare into Maureen's chocolate-colored eyes. "Yes?" he asks softly. "Is it – do I – 'm I gonna get a pun'shmit?"

"No, of course not," Maureen says, and caresses Mark's blond head. "I just wanted to say – you're not dumb or ugly, and you're a very good listener. Don't put yourself down, Marky."

"Down?"

"It means, it means, it means don't insult yourself."

Mark cocks his head. "Why? Daddy says I should – my cat-ism – "

"Cat-ism?"

"Yeah," says Mark. "My cat-ism. Daddy says every night I should say it to 'mind me – to 'mind me that I'm not – not like him. Wor'less."

Maureen is absolutely flabbergasted. "Your… your father wrote you a catechism to say to show you that you're worthless?"

Just as Mark nods, the door slams open and Roger walks in. Mark looks at him, half-delighted to see him and half-terrified. "Roger," he breathes. He stands up on the bed, jeans zipped and buttoned, shirt still on the bed next to Maureen.

"Well, well, well, don't you look nice," Roger says, smiling. He looks at Maureen. "Go talk to Collins and Benny," he mouths, and as Maureen hurriedly leaves the room, Roger scoops Mark into his arms. "Hey, buddy."

"Hi," Mark says, unable to tear his eyes away from the man who is holding him as he would an infant, wrapped in a blanket, freshly introduced to the world. Mark doesn't mind, though. Nobody's ever held him before, at least, not that he can remember. "Can I – ?" he begins, hand paused in mid-air, just next to Roger's hair.

"Sure," Roger replies, and Mark touches the long, curly dark blond locks. "Like 'em?" he asks.

Mark nods fervently. "Pretty," he assures Roger. He lets his hand lay back down in the cradle of Roger's arms. Suddenly realizing something, he bursts out, "Thank you for the clothes."

"Aw, it was nothing, Marky. Hey, I just came in here to see if you wanna come see my room." At Mark's tremendous smile, Roger laughs. "I'll take that as a yes," he chuckles, and carries the little boy into his bedroom. "It's a little less pink," he warns the child.

When they step inside, Mark giggles. "It's like – just like Cindy's room," he whispers.

"Cindy?" echoes Roger.

"My sister," Mark explains. "She's – she's firteen. Thirteen. Her room looks, looks like this." He indicates the posters and pipes protruding from the walls. "'Cept she has pictures of – of boys ev'rywhere, 'nstead'a these." He points to one of the many posters above Roger's bed. "What's this?"

Roger smiles lightly. "That was my band," he tells Mark, "before we broke up."

"Band?"

"It's when a bunch of people get together and make music," Roger explains, internally horrified that Mark honestly does not know what a band is. "I was in a band, and I used to play guitar – that's this thing," he adds, pointing to his guitar, "and I'd sing."

"I like singing," Mark whispers. "Sometimes Cindy sings to me. She's good at it, I think. She used to sing a song called Without You."

Roger nods, closing his eyes for just a minute. "Do you want to learn how to play the guitar?" he offers the five-year-old.

"L-learn? I can't – Daddy says I shouldn't – I mean…" he trails off and stares at his bare feet. Quietly, he murmurs, "You'd just be wastin' your time, 'm so dumb."

"What was that?" Roger asks, alert. "Did you call yourself dumb, Mark?"

Mark nods, looking a little scared.

"You're _not _dumb. You're a very clever little boy. I don't want to ever hear you do that again, do you understand?"

Mark nods mutely. He does not want Roger to be angry with him. Then Roger might not want him anymore. "Roger?" Mark asks.

"Yeah?"

"Can I… can I go to sleep?"

Roger looks at the little boy and wonders if sleep would do him any good. "It's eight-thirty," he tells Mark. "Do you _want _to sleep?"

"Yeah," replies Mark sleepily. "Should I – where should I sleep? In the – at home I would sleep under Daddy's bed but here there's no _under_," he explains. "I could just stay next to it, or on the floor'n the kitchen, or the bathroom," he suggests.

"No, Marky, you can stay on a bed," Roger says, trying to hide his true loathing for Mr. Cohen. "Tomorrow we're gonna go all over the city and you can have fun, 'kay?"

"'Kay," Mark replies softly. "You – are you sure you want me t'stay here?" he asks hesitantly.

Roger smiles. "Yes, Mark, I'm sure."

Mark lets his eyelids flutter over his blue eyes. "Kay." With that, he slips under the blankets. "Roger?" Mark whispers. "Will you stay with me? Will you be here when I – when I wake up?"

Roger nods. "Of course, Mark." With that, he kisses the boy's forehead and goes to stand up – however, he is shocked when Mark reaches up to capture Roger's face in his hands and, before releasing it, kisses Roger on the nose.

"'Night, Roger," Mark whispers, and falls asleep.

Only an hour later does Roger leave the room to speak with Benny, Maureen, and Collins.


	5. Without You, Logistics Fail

Roger slides onto the table in the kitchen-slash-living room. "Okay, guys," he says, sure to keep his voice down so as not to disturb the sleeping five-year-old. "What's up?"

"Well," Collins says in his deep, thoughtful voice, "We just finished filling Maureen in. And you weren't there for this either – when you were getting Mark his clothes, Benny discovered that Mark's scars on his back are from his dad. Pun'shmit."

"I could've told you that," Roger grumbles, accepting a handful of Cheerios from Benny's outstretched hands. "Thanks. Okay. So… any other twisted tales of depravation?"

Maureen offers, "His father told him he's not allowed to sit on the bed." After sighing shakily, she adds, "And whenever I asked him a question that he'd have to choose what he wanted, he just said that it was up to me. Whatever _I _want."

"Oh," she adds after a moment's thought, "and he didn't have any underwear."

"Yeah, he did," Benny said. "When I was helping him get ready for his bath. But it _was _really gross and dirty and old."

"Oh."

"Anything else?" asks Collins lightly, trying to make it seem as though Mark's abuse is nothing.

"He keeps putting himself down," Roger says. "Called himself dumb."

"And he has a catechism that his father wrote him that says he's worthless!" Maureen shrieks.

"And," Roger adds, "he has a sister that gets treated right. Cindy, I think it was."

Maureen, startled as a new thought hits her, throws in, "He's scared you're not gonna want him anymore. He thinks you won't want him because he's – he said he's stupid, and ugly…"

Collins and Benny, who had been watching the exchange as though it were a tennis match, pause to let all the new information sink in. At last, Collins speaks up. "What do you think we should do with him?"

"Well, keep him, of course," Maureen says matter-of-factly, as though there is nothing else to do with an abused five-year-old with a bizarre attachment to a drug addict. Speaking of drug addiction…

"Roger!" yelps Collins. "Put down the needle! This is _important_."

Roger sets his needle down on the ledge and whines, "I know. But I just needed – needed to think clearly for a second. No interruptions."

"Well, Roger, it's an interruption to the rest of us," Benny drawls. "You still using April's needle?"

Roger stares at his feet.

"I'll take that as a yes. You know, she could've had other diseases – "

"Weren't we talking about Mark?" Maureen jumps in, not wanting to deal with a depressed Roger again.

"Yes," Roger says, still glaring at Benny out of the corner of his eye for pointing out Roger's addiction. "We were."

Benny nods. "Right. What are we going to do with him?"

Maureen shrieks, "KEEP HIM!"

"Well, think about this financially," Collins says slowly. "We can't afford to support him on our own, of course. We can barely support ourselves – yes, even you, Benny, you said yourself that you and Allison are pretty much over. And I know nobody wants to apply for government money, that's not even an option. But…"

"But," Roger adds, "there aren't any other options."

"Yes, there are," Benny says. "Orphanages and foster homes. We could find his father – "

"NO!" everyone screams. Roger then hurriedly shushes everyone, remembering that Mark is sleeping. "We're NOT going to find his father," Maureen declares.

"So we could keep him and/or adopt him," Benny announces, "or get him another home. A new one."

"I don't think that's an option," Collins says softly. "We can't – not after he's met Roger. I mean, he _loves _him now. Mark, that is. Loves Roger. And I think we all love Mark now."

"I do," Roger says immediately.

"I do," Collins echoes.

"Me too!" Maureen shrieks.

Grudgingly, Benny grumbles, "I do too. I just don't know how we're going to support him."

"Well," Roger begins, "There's something – well, we could – I mean – "

Collins proposes, "I could get a job. We all should. Except – except someone needs to baby-sit."

Everybody turns to Roger.

"I'll do it," Roger says instantly. "I'd love to. He's – he's just so sweet. And he _likes _me. Loves me. And I want to help him… fix himself. You know?"

Maureen nods. "I know what you mean, Roger. We should all stay home the first few weeks, help him get back on track. Maybe a few job interviews."

"We need Allison's money," Collins announces. "Why can't you stay with her, see how it goes for a little while?" he prods Benny gently.

Benny sighs deeply. "Fine. I'll give it a month, tops. If nothing improves – well, I should have a job by then anyway. Maybe we'll have enough money that we don't need the Greys."

Collins nods. Roger nods. Maureen gasps and points to the doorway leading to Roger and Benny's bedroom.

"Mark?" Roger rasps. "What are you doing up?"

Mark looks at his feet and lets his lower lip drop a bit. "I had a bad dream," he whispers. "'M sorry. Didn't – didn't mean t' both'r you."

"You had a bad dream?" Roger repeats soothingly, placing the child on his lap, stroking his hair. "Do you wanna tell us what it was about?"

Mark shakes his head emphatically. "I don't – don't want you to think I'm, I'm weak," he explains. "Daddy says nigh'mares mean you're weak, 'n he hates that. So I'm not go'a tell. U'less – u'less you wan' me to, I mean. 'D do anything for you, 'cause you're nice t'me an' you have pretty eyes."

Roger looks at his friends, who are watching somewhat enviously as Mark straddles Roger's legs and wraps his arms around the man's neck sleepily. "Do you think you'd feel better if you told me about your dream?" he asks gently. "I promise I won't think you're weak."

Mark's eyes shift from Roger to Benny, then Collins, and lastly Maureen. Finally he launches into a summary of his dream.

"I was – I was looking for the broom, so I could clean up in Daddy and Cindy's room, 'n I found it, and while I was, was, was sweeping, Daddy saw me'n tol' me I missed a spot, 'n pointed. Didn't see it, so – so he pushed me forward 'n I fell, 'n then the ground opened 'n I kept falling, 'n finally I landed in – in your bed, but Daddy was there, 'n he tol' me to get off the bed, I don't 'serve it. I was, was getting off, 'n when I did, he pushed me 'n then you came in, Rog-er, 'n he was pushin' you, 'n you fell too 'n you were sleeping, or, or dead, 'n you didn't wake up."

Mark looks up. "'n then I woke up," he finishes at last. "'n I was scared."

Roger strokes the boy's back comfortingly. "Oh, Mark," he murmurs. "It's okay. You're not gonna go back there. It's okay. You're here now. You're safe."

He scoops the boy up so that he is holding him like a baby, cradled in Roger's outstretched arms. "You wanna go back to bed?"

"Uh-huh," Mark says quietly. Roger freezes as Mark utters seven startling words: "Do I have t' say my cat-ism?"

"Cat-ism?" Benny asks from his position at the table.

"Catechism," Maureen murmurs.

"_Oh_."

"No, Marky," Roger whispers. "Hey – you want me to sing you a song so you can fall asleep better?"

Mark's cerulean eyes light up. "Yeah!" he exclaims, followed by a stream of coughing.

Roger smiles. "Then you should have a song. Would you be okay if Maureen and Benny and Collins came in to say goodnight too?"

Mark's head bobs up and down. "Like Maureen," he says. "Like her lots. 'n Benny 'n Collins."

"You like me?" Maureen asks, smiling at Mark. "I like you too, Marky." With that, she stands on tip-toe to reach the blond in Roger's arms and kisses him on the forehead, leaving a soft imprint of pale pink lipstick on the child's otherwise pristine pale skin.

"Thanks," Mark murmurs, smiling faintly.

"Sure, Mark."

Mark considers this. Then he leans up and kisses Roger on the lips before lying back down in the man's arms. "I love you, Roger," he says sleepily as Roger lays him down in his bed. The covers are tucked around Mark's waist and shoulders, and Mark watches Roger as he sits down on Benny's bed with his guitar on his lap.

Roger, remembering Mark's comment about Cindy singing him the famous _Without You_, smiles and murmurs, "Dedicated to Mark." With that, he begins.

_Without you, the ground thaws_

_The rain falls_

_The grass grows_

Mark looks up and smiles.

_Without you, the seeds root_

_The flowers bloom_

_The children play_

He tugs the blanket around his neck.

_The stars gleam and the poets dream._

_The eagles fly without you._

_The earth turns, the sun burns._

Mark and Roger then chorus, just before Mark drifts off to sleep, "But I die without you."

And yet, even after the boy is asleep, Roger doesn't stop playing and neither Benny nor Collins nor Maureen asks him to.


	6. Recognizing the Downstairs Neighbor

Mark's eyes flutter open. He glances around to see Benny in the bed beside him, and Roger – on the floor, a towel thrown over him like a blanket. Mark gasps.

He knows better than to wake Roger, but it might almost be worth it just to apologize and insist that Roger have his bed back. Almost. But then Roger would be annoyed with him for waking him up, and maybe he'd get pun'shmit, or Roger would give him back to Daddy, or –

_No_! Roger said he wouldn't do that! He said he would keep him. But – but Roger could change his mind. He could forget, or he could learn how bad Mark was and realize how wrong he'd been in saying that Mark was a good boy. Roger could, could do things like that – he's not bad like Mark, he doesn't do bad things. Not worthless like Mark. Not ugly and stupid and –

Right. Roger said not to think like that. If he found out, Mark would get pun'shmit. And Mark would have to make sure Roger found out: he couldn't lie to the man who had saved him, even if it just meant not telling him something. It would be bad, and Mark wants to be good.

Mark is suddenly alert to footsteps. He creeps to the door soundlessly and pushes it open gently, just a crack, to see a very naked Maureen walking through the hallway to the kitchen. Mark can't help it: he gasps.

"Marky!" Maureen whispers. Her hands do not fly to cover herself, and Mark is not yet old enough to know to look away. He watches her face as she goes through several different possible questions. She settles on "What are you doing up?"

Mark stammers, "I'm – I'm sorry, I was just – I just woke up, Daddy always wants me to be up by s – by six-thirty, 'n I didn't know 'f I should sleep more, so I got up. Do you – do you want me to sleep?"

Maureen sighs deeply. "No, Marky, it's okay. Just stay right there, okay? I need to go put on clothes. Don't move." With that, Maureen turns and revisits her bedroom. Mark catches sight of the flash of pink out of the corner of his eye, but does not turn to watch as the door closes and Maureen steps inside. After all, she had said "don't move". It would be defi'nt to shift even a little bit after she said that.

And oh, no, now Mark has to sneeze. He struggles to keep his nose and mouth shut, keeping his eyes open, but it is a losing battle. The sneeze bursts through his nose and he nearly shrieks "achoo" as it tears through him. Just at that moment, as his hands fly to his nose, Maureen returns from her room, now in a short, lacy nightgown and fuzzy pink bunny slippers. Mark gasps.

"'m sorry!" he exclaims, letting his hands drop to his sides. How could he have been so stupid? How could he be that defi'nt? He hopes pun'shmit won't be too bad. "Shou' I – shou' I ge' in posi-shin?"

"Position?" repeats Maureen. "Position for what?"

Mark, unsure, replies, "Posi-shin for pun'shmit. You – you tol' me not t' move, 'n I moved, 'n I 'serve pun'shmit."

Maureen sighs and gathers the little boy in her arms. Mark, trembling a little bit, says nothing, and waits for Maureen to speak. She does. "Marky, babe, listen. I just said don't move because I meant don't go back to sleep, not don't cover your nose if you sneeze. You can do that if you want, pookie."

Mark's face lights up, but not from what she is saying – not most of it, anyway. "Poo-what?" he asks.

"Pookie. Is it okay if I call you that? It's just something my daddy used to call me…"

Mark stiffens at the word "daddy", but he nods all the same. "Like it," he says. "Like it a lot. Pookie. Jus' you, though – don' let Roger call me Pookie, 'cause he calls me Marky 'n I like that. 'Kay?"

Maureen grins. "'Kay. Just us."

She carries Mark into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. She is alarmed to discover that there is no food in there, apart from some cheese that she's pretty sure wasn't blue when she first bought it. She shrieks. Mold is _not _her area of expertise.

Mark is startled. "Wha – what?" he stammers. "Did I – did I do somethin' wrong?"

"No, Pookie, there's just mold in the fridge and I don't wanna touch it – Collins!"

Maureen turns to face her awakening friend. "Could you keep it down a little?" he mumbles drowsily. "I'm trying to sleep."

Maureen jumps up and down. "I _caaaaaaaan't!_" she whines. "There's _mold _in the fridge! Me and Mark are scared!" she protests, stretching out the word. Mark smiles a little, but doesn't let Collins or Maureen see.

Collins slowly gets up, reaches into the fridge, throws the vile cheese into Roger and Benny's room, and returns to the couch. Within moments he is asleep again.

"Well," Maureen says to Mark. "That takes care of that. Are you hungry?"

Mark nods.

"Then we'll go get food," she says decisively, and scrawls "Out with Mark. – Mo" in pencil on the black wall above the couch. Collins, at least, is sure to see it when he wakes up, if not Roger and Benny when they try to shake him awake. "What do you want to eat?"

Mark bites his lip. "I – I don't know. 'm sorry."

Maureen shudders. "Well, what did your fa – no, never mind, I don't want to know." A deep, dramatic sigh. "We'll go to the Life, then. Did you like it there? That place where you ate yesterday?"

Mark nods.

"Good. We'll have breakfast there – what time is it?" she murmurs absently to herself, and rummages through Collins's belongings before finding a digital watch. "Okay, so the Life's not open yet – we could go to Manatus," she suggests.

Mark cocks his head.

"It's this twenty-four-hour place in the Village, pretty good food but a long walk. We'll take the Fourteenth Street one-train."

Mark nods. "Okay," he says, not understanding at all. Too many numbers…

Maureen smiles. "Come on, Marky, we'll take the long way so you can see everything." With that, she swings on her pale pink leather jacket, clips a pin in the shape of a cow onto the breast pocket, and tugs the door halfway open, as quietly as she possibly can. "Kay, let's go," she encourages the nervous Mark.

"I – I – I – too high up," Mark whimpers. "Scared." He points to the six flights of stairs below him, quivering. "Scared."

Maureen sighs. "Do you want me to carry you?" she offers sweetly. Mark nods, and so she scoops him into her arms. He relaxes, whispering thanks. Maureen kisses his forehead. "I'm glad you're here, Mark," she murmurs in his ear when they reach the fifth floor, just below the loft. She does not watch where she is walking, but rather, she watches the little boy's expression – and crashes into an innocent passer-by.

"Oops!" Maureen blurts out. "I'm sorry! I wasn't watching where I was walking, just carrying Mark, and – " She squints. "Don't I know you?"

The slightly younger girl shrugs. "Do you? I always remind people of – who is she?"

Maureen blushes. "Oh, my friend's girlfriend, April – looks a lot like you. Well, she died. But she used to smile just like you."

Mark looks shyly up at the girl who leans against the wall, legs crossed, one arm supporting her. When she meets the tiny child's eyes, Mark gasps.

"Mimi?"


	7. Are We Going To Keep Him?

Mark scrunches up his face. "Oh no," he whimpers into Maureen's shoulder. "Oh no oh no oh no. She's gonna take me back to Daddy," he whispers, terrified. His breathing quickens, his eyes widen. "'Reen, please, she's gonna take me back there, you said they wouldn't take me back…"

Maureen, completely unaware as to what to do in this situation, looks around helplessly. The thousand questions she has to ask are nowhere near as important as comforting Mark right now. "Oh, god," she whispers to herself. And so she does the only thing she knows will calm Mark down at least the tiniest bit: she sings.

"Over the moon," she croons sweetly. "All you have to do is jump over the moon."

And she's right: Mark does calm down. He begins to breathe at a normal rate, though he keeps his arms firmly wrapped around Maureen's neck. She breathes a sigh of relief.

"Okay," she says, looking at the boy. "Nobody's gonna take you back _anywhere_. I promise. Do you know her? – What did you say her name was?"

The girl replies immediately, "Mimi Marquez. And is that – is that – _Mark_?"

The little boy nods. "Don't tell Daddy, please don't tell Daddy," he rasps, not showing his emotions.

Mimi blinks several times. "Well, I don't even know what you're _doing _here, Mark."

"Who are you?" Mimi and Maureen ask one another at the exact same time, then laugh.

"You first," Maureen insists.

Mimi sighs. "I'm Mimi Marquez, like I said. Live right there." She swings her leg backwards to tap the door of her apartment.

"How do you know Mark?"

"I'm a friend of his father's," she says smoothly, running a hand through her glossy black hair. "You wanna come in?" she asks, gesturing to her apartment again. "I got apple juice," she adds as an appeal to the juice-loving five-year-old. She peers at him through her hair, and Mark's small face shows no excitement, only soft calculation.

Maureen shakes her head. "No, I don't. Not yet. I'm Maureen Johnson, by the way. I live up there with my friends." She points to the staircase.

"You the ones that make all the noise on weekends?"

Maureen grins. "Yeah, that's us."

"And how do _you _know Mark?"

"Well – three of my friends found him on the street near the Life Café yesterday. Didn't wanna just leave him there, and he said his dad told him to stay out there, so… we took him home."

Mimi nods cautiously. "Uh-_huh_." Then she squints, and breaks into a smile. "Oh, I know you! You're one of the ones I see at Life all the time, putting tables together and screaming, right?"

Maureen laughs. "Yep, that's me and my friends. Wanna come upstairs with me, meet my friends, explain your story with Mark?"

"Sure," the younger girl replies. "I'd like that."

As they walk back up the steep steps, Mark whimpers a little. "'Reen," he whispers, "you promised brea'fast." He then ducks his head as if expecting a blow, and silently shivers. He doesn't say the dreaded _p_-word – pun'shmit – but it's clear all over his pale face that it's what he expects.

Maureen gasps. "You're right, I did." She turns to Mimi. "Got anything? I really don't wanna go out now, but I did promise him."

Mimi shakes her head. "I'm living off the Catscratch payroll," she admits regretfully. "Unless smack's what you're looking for. Got plenty of smack."

That prompts a giggle from Maureen, ill-timed though it is. "I don't think Mark'll ever be doing smack, will you, Pookie?" she asks, tickling Mark a little. He doesn't understand, but he smiles anyway: a shy, cherubic smile that just screams for a hug. And so Maureen hugs him.

"Pookie, would it be okay if we eat just a little later?"

Mark nods. "Uh-huh."

"Thanks, baby."

She lets him walk on his own from there, and though he is a bit wobbly and scared on the unfairly slanted steps, he manages with occasional help from Maureen. They reach the top of the stairs then, and Maureen kicks the door open, _hard_. It is then opened by Benny, decked out in too-large sweatpants and a long T-shirt.

"Benny, this is… Mimi," Maureen introduces carefully. "Mimi, Benny. He's – "

"I know Benny," Mimi interrupts. "Nice outfit, Ben." To Maureen she adds, "I met him this past winter."

"Ah."

To Benny, Maureen explains, "Mimi is a friend of Mark's father. She lives downstairs."

"Convenient," Benny replies smoothly, not taking his eyes off of the catlike brunette. "Mimi Marquez. What is Mark's father's name, pray tell?"

Mimi cocks her head before replying, "Mark's father? Jacob Cohen. Thought you'd've known by now."

Benny opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off as Maureen fakes a laugh. "Relying on a five-year-old's information isn't always wise," she utters with the barest hint of a drawl in her tone. The words slide into the air like liquid butter, and she is spared further explanation for the moment as a very naked Roger emerges from the shower.

He catches sight of Mimi.

Jade eyes meet brown.

"Oh, _shit_!"

Roger dashes into his room and slams the door, echoed by the laughter of Collins, who is currently in there as well, and Benny, Maureen, and Mimi too. Mark, worldly as he is, giggles quietly, and Maureen has the faintest suspicion that the little boy might even know what they're laughing about.

"Roger should put on pants," Mark observes quietly, confirming Maureen's suspicion.

"Hey!" Roger yells from inside his room.

More laughter. Mark cringes, but Maureen assures him, "He was just _kidding_," and Mark laughs too, after that.

When Roger emerges, he is wearing his shirt inside-out, and his pants are definitely Benny's, which Benny (loudly) acknowledges. Once the Roger-bashing session is over, he holds a hand out to Mimi. "Hey," he greets her. "I'm Roger."

"Mimi," she responds with a nod. "I'm a friend of Mark's father."

Roger narrows his eyes. "You're not here to take him back, are you? Because he's not _going _back."

"Yeah!" Collins puts in, getting off of the couch with a blanket wrapped around him to conceal his nakedness.

Mimi blushes. "I'm not going to take him back," she drawls. "No reason to. Less nudity in this place than there is at his dad's, you know," she observes. "So… Maureen, is it?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna keep him, Maureen?"

Maureen nods. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Roger and Benny echo. Belatedly, Collins adds his agreement as well, and Mark breaks into a smile.

"So…" Maureen says, trailing off. She then picks up with, "How do you know Mark? I mean, how did you and his father become friends, and how long have you known him, and that stuff."

Mimi tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. "Well, it started when I had just turned sixteen…"


	8. Mimi's Remembrances

**November 11th, 1986**

"_Mimi, darling, would you come here for a minute?" _

_Mimi enters her mother's room tentatively, lavender slippers padding across the carpet over to the woman's bed. "Yes, mama?"_

"_Mimi, dearest, your father and I have been talking, chica, and we decided… we decided that we can no longer support you," Mrs. Marquez says softly. "I know it is hard, my love, but it would have happened soon anyway, and I know how you long to be out in the world…" _

_The sixteen-year-old girl feels the blood rushing to her head. She shakes her head back and forth a few times to clear it, and then clarifies, "You want me to leave?" _

_Weakly, sounding as though the words pain her, Mimi's mother rasps, "Yes. Darling, my love, please know that I don't mean for any harm to come to you. We do not have the money to support you, and you've always been so clever… I am sure that you will find your place in the world. And know that you can always visit, whenever you would like, mi vida." _

_Ah, her childhood pet name… mi vida. It always pleased Mimi, being called that, and perhaps now is no different. _

"_If you want me to go, I will go, mama," Mimi murmurs._

"_Thank you, my love," the woman replies. _

**November 18th, 1986**

_Shivering, huddled on a New York City street corner, Mimi draws her long arms around her torso, trying to protect herself from the cold. It is unsuccessful, but the motion warms her for the second, gives her something to do to distract her from the freezing temperature, heavy wind, and loveless city. _

_A man walks by, his dark, heavy boots clicking against the sidewalk. He brushes past Mimi and she trembles, envying him his warm clothing and shelter. Surely he's going home, to his heater and wife and children. It must be four in the morning by now. _

_And the cruelty of it is that Mimi chose this. She could have chosen any other place in the world, anywhere that isn't as cruel and cold and bitter as New York, but the dreamer in her insisted upon the city that never sleeps. Well, it doesn't, she thinks to herself angrily. It doesn't sleep. Or at least, I don't. _

_The man, who somehow hasn't rounded the corner yet, turns to Mimi and holds out a tiny baggie, filled with white powder that Mimi recognizes from the high school Just Say No videos, the ones that were displayed at assemblies while Mimi's friends were in an alleyway, shooting up. She had always had half a mind to join them, but it was never strong enough… she never had the guts to pierce her skin with so cruel an edge – _

"_First hit's free," the man tells her. _

_Mimi shakes her head, and a burst of brilliance comes to her. "No hablo inglés," she tells the man, and to her horror, he dangles the powder before her eyes before walking away. _

_She almost wishes she could reach out and grab it as he leaves, but restrains herself. _

**December 21st, 1986**

"_Name, please?" _

"_Mimi Marquez. I am here to apply for a job." _

_The woman behind the counter laughs. "If you want a job here, take it, by all means," she laughs. "No applications, honey, just get a costume, get an act, and book a time slot. Chart's on the back of that door, just write your name. If you do well – keep your tips – someone might ask you to become part of the Catscratch group, working here and getting a salary in addition to tips. You say yes, then you get a job." _

_Mimi nods, and plucks a pen out of the mug on the woman's desk. She scrawls "Mimi Marquez" in the box for 10:30 – 10:35 this very evening, and then replaces the pen. "I'll see you later," the brunette promises the blond, and she leaves. _

**December 3rd, 1987**

"_Hey! Wait up!" a man calls, dashing through the snow to catch up to Mimi. She pauses in her tracks, making sure no bills are poking out of her pockets or purse. Once she's sure that she's safe, she turns to face the stranger. _

"_Yes?" _

_The man holds out a hand to her, and as she gets a better look of his face, Mimi realizes that he is one of her clients. A regular. He always has vodka and heavy tips, she remembers. "I'm Jacob Cohen," he says. "Mimi, right?" _

_Mimi smiles seductively, hoping to quicken this meeting as much as possible. If she waits too long to return to her street corner, it may be occupied by the time she arrives. _

"_Where do you live?" Jacob asks. "I'm right over there – see?" He points to a six-story building just across the street, and Mimi feels a burst of envy. He _knows _where he lives, she thinks bitterly to himself. One can never be sure when her home is a street corner. _

"_I'm over there," Mimi responds, pointing vaguely to the general direction where she usually sleeps. Jacob nods. _

"_Kay, well, I was thinking that if you need a place to stay, I'm open," he informs her. "Of course, it would be in exchange for – certain services, but a night in a warm bed would be worth almost anything, wouldn't it?" _

_Mimi isn't a Marquez for nothing. _

_She kicks him hard in the shin and marches away. Over her shoulder, she calls after him, "Dignity's something else entirely, Mr. Cohen."_

_With that, Mimi returns to her corner and greets a man she's dubbed Coffee Cup, the one who occupies the doorstep of the Life Café and holds out a Starbucks coffee cup for money. "Cold," she murmurs to him, and drapes her jacket over her shivering body, lies down, and drifts off to sleep._

**December 10th, 1987**

_CATSCRATCH CLUB: Closed For Renovations_

_Horror-struck, Mimi takes to dancing in alleyways. Thirty-cent tips do nothing for her; she drops them into Coffee Cup's coffee cup, hoping that at least he's getting something out of it._

_It's colder than Mimi can remember it ever being. So cold that she can't sleep, can't eat, can't _move _without pain. She knows where Jacob's building is, and nothing is stopping her from entering._

_And one day, she does. _

_She finds the listing for "Cohen" under the buzzer directory and buzzes. A slightly stoned-sounding voice snarls, "If you're another Girl Scout…" _

_Mimi hurriedly responds, "It's Mimi. From the Catscratch Club." _

_A nasty laugh, and the buzzer sounds. "Sixth floor," Jacob grunts before closing the connection. _

_When she arrives at his door, she knocks, a little afraid. _

"_You wanna warm bed?" the man mumbles in her ear. He is slurring his words and his eyes are bulging, yet emotionless._

"_Yes," she replies at last. It is the truth. She would like nothing more than a warm bed to snuggle into, her tiny body pressed into the mattress._

"_You want food?" _

_God, yes. "God, yes," she whispers. _

"_You can have that." _

_Mimi nods. She isn't an idiot, she knows a price is coming, and she even knows, or should know, what the price is. She holds her breath as Jacob continues. _

"_I want you to live with me for as long as you request food and shelter and a bed. As long as you live with me, I want you to take care of my kids, Mark and Cindy – Cindy's in her bedroom there," he says, pointing, "and Mark's asleep on the laundry room floor. That's where he sleeps. Also, you're gonna cook, and clean, and of course, service me as I request. You think you can do that?" _

_Mimi hesitates. _

_But there is nothing else for it. _

"_Yes," she replies. _

"_Good," Jacob says smugly. "You've had a hard day, I'm sure. You can have the bed all to yourself tonight, and I'll take the couch. But you'll be making up for it tomorrow."_

_And there is no doubt in Mimi's mind that that will be the case._

**December 29th, 1987**

"_Mimi, this is Benny," Jacob says, pointing to the big man in the doorway. Benny is wearing a suit and shiny black shoes. His dark skin catches the moonlight shining in through the window, and he wears a scowl. _

"_Good evening, Benny," Mimi greets him politely. "Mimi Marquez, Jacob's… girlfriend." _

_The word stings her lips. It has nothing to do with her. _Girlfriend_. She's never been his girlfriend, never will be, isn't. She can't even remember the last time she was someone's girlfriend_.

_But Jacob nods curtly, approving. _

"_A pleasure to meet you," Benny says smoothly. "I'm sure I've seen you before. At the Catscratch club, wasn't it?"_

"_Most likely," Mimi replies. "I worked there. They're – they're renovating now, but they should be done soon, I hope." _

_Benny nods. _

_Jacob switches the fan on, knowing that Mimi hates the cold, with a tiny smirk towards her. Mimi catches it – Benny does, maybe. He doesn't let it show on his expressionless face, but maybe he's just good at hiding his emotions. Regardless, Mimi wraps her arms around herself, as she did on the street so many times, and – _

_Her shirt shifts up a little bit, exposing skin. It ordinarily wouldn't be a problem for Mimi Marquez the exhibitionist, but here…_

_Shining bruises adorn Mimi's pale skin._

"_Seem a bit clumsy," Benny says, catching sight of one, but Mimi catches the way his eyes flare, just for a moment, with anger. Surely he knows what's going on…_

_Jacob decides to go out to get a video to watch with Benny, but Benny decides to stay and "get to know" Mimi and the children. _

"_Jacob do that?" he asks Mimi, pointing to her bruises. _

_Mimi wants to tell him. Maybe it's the beer getting to her. She's always been able to hold her alcohol, though. Maybe she just needs someone to talk to. "Yes," she murmurs. _

_Benny nods. "He's always been violent. Why are you here? Why do you stay here if he treats you this way?" _

_She stares at the ground. It's embarrassing. "I came here so I could have a place to stay," she admits. "It was early December, when the Catscratch closed for renovations, and I was freezing. But now I stay because I don't have anywhere else to go. I don't think I could go back to the street, after this." _

_Benny grimaces. "I'm sure you could," he remarks. "But, you know, I could – you could stay at my place. I wouldn't hurt you. I wouldn't even… you know." _

_Mimi shakes her head. She knows why, even though she doesn't say it. It's because of the children, she wants to scream. The children that Benny hasn't met, isn't going to meet. The ones huddled together on the laundry room floor, with even more scars and bruises than Mimi herself._

"_Well, this is abuse," Benny informs her. "You're a minor, aren't you? I could report this, and get you out of here. Adopt you, even." _

_She knows what he's saying. She knows what is going on._

"_What do you want, then?" she asks quietly. _

_Benny nods. "Okay, then," he says. It isn't quite an answer to Mimi's question, and she knows that surely the alcohol is affecting him as well. Maybe it's even encouraging him to demand this from her. It isn't quite an answer to her question, but to Mimi it's everything, as he leads her out of Jacob's apartment and into his own. She takes a last shuddering glance at the shabby door before it disappears from view_.

**December 30th, 1987**

_Mimi reenters Jacob's apartment for the first time since leaving with Benny the previous night. She has so much to think about, not least of which being the fact that Benny was far more gentle and kind and loving than Jacob had ever been, and if she can be taken out of an abusive situation as a minor, than so can the children, if necessary. _

_Just then, she spots a familiar blond boy huddled against the windowsill._

"_Hey, Mark," Mimi murmurs, sitting next to him. Mark looks up. _

"_Hi," he whispers. _

"_Do you know where Jacob is?" _

_Mark shakes his head. "He left with Cindy. He was real mad. Said you're in trouble."_

_Mimi shudders. "Do you know where he went?" she asked the boy, running her hand up and down his back. _

_Mark shakes his head. "'m sorry," he whispers. _

"_It's okay, Mark." _

_Mark repeats, "O-kay."_

"_Do you want me to sing you a song?" she asks, struck by a sudden idea. She doesn't really want to sing, but – anything to cheer up the little boy._

_Mark smiles. "Yeah." _

_Mimi smiles right back at him. Her entire face lights up. She takes a deep breath, and begins, "Your eyes… as we said our goodbyes… can't get them out of my mind, and I find, I can't hide, from your eyes…" _

_Mark and Mimi lose themselves in the beautiful, sweet melody of the song, but it doesn't last long. Surely, Mimi has finished that song and many others by the time the door bangs open and the beatings start, but still in the musical trance, she hardly even notices as the fists hit her skin._

**March 14th, 1988**

"_Benny?" Mimi whispers, knocking on his apartment door. _

_It opens, and Benny pokes his head out. "Mimi," he says, surprised. _

_Mimi nods. "How does one go about getting minors out of an abusive situation?"_

_Benny ushers her inside. As she sits down on the couch, Benny brings her a coffee mug and hands it to her. Mimi accepts it gratefully and takes a long sip. _

"_What happened?" he asks her. "I heard screams, this morning…" _

_Mimi shudders. She has to change the story a little bit. Benny can't know about the children… "I dropped a plate on Jacob's toe. It shattered. He beat me." _

_She doesn't bear those bruises, but Mark does. But Benny can't know about Mark… she hopes Benny won't ask to see the marks. He doesn't. _

"_Oh, Mimi…" _

_He trails off. After two long minutes of silence, he picks up with, "I can work on getting you out of there." _

_Mimi cocks her head. "You could?" _

_Benny nods. "Sure." _

_Mimi shakes her head. "No, of course you can't… he'd find me, and he'd beat me again…" _

"_No," Benny says firmly. "When do you come of age?" _

_Mimi whispers, "Today." _

"_Ah." _

_They sit in silence. Benny doesn't say it – that there's nothing he can do for her – but they both know it. She doesn't even want help for herself so much as she wants Mark and Cindy to leave. But self-preservation…_

**April 11th, 1988**

_Mimi opens the door to her brand-new apartment, first month's rent paid for with Benny's money. God, how she loves him. And he doesn't ask for anything in return anymore, knows that it's healing time now._

_Mimi props the door open with a brick – she'll have to get keys some other day – and returns to Jacob's apartment one last time._

_Neither Cindy nor Jacob is there, and Mimi figures that's just as well – Mark is the one she wanted to see, anyway. She scoops him up into her arms, and whispers to him urgently, "Mark, I have to leave now. But I'll be back to save you, okay?"_

_Mark nods. What else is there to do but nod?_

"_I love you," she adds. _

_Mark doesn't understand, and Mimi thinks that maybe he doesn't need to._

"_Goodbye, Mark." _

"_Bye." _

The door closes. Mimi returns to her apartment, flashes the door a smile – god, at last, a place to live – before bounding down the steps to reach the neon sign of the Catscratch Club.


	9. Sliding Down, Inching Up

"See ya, Jon," Collins calls as he exits the café. The writer looks up momentarily from his notebook to wave to his departing friends before returning to the pen and paper, enthralled once more as Roger is with his guitar, and Maureen is with any microphone she can get her hands on, and Benny with papery green wads of cash, and –

And Mark is with Roger, of course.

There is no denying that Roger fascinates Mark, demonstrated by Mark's frequent glances up at Roger from his position, nestled in Maureen's arms. "Roger has pretty eyes," he tells himself every few minutes, and though it becomes annoying after twenty minutes of aimless walking, nobody really wants Mark to stop. Or, rather, nobody really wants to _tell _Mark to stop.

"Oooh, guys, look!" Maureen squeals at one point. "A _playground_!"

With that, she (holding Mark) dashes to the crosswalk and leaps across in four easy strides the second the WALK sign is illuminated. Chances are, had it not lit up at that very moment, Maureen would have raced across anyway. The running seems to entertain Mark, however, because he giggles and reaches up to touch Maureen's hair as they leap over sidewalk cracks, heading for the swirly slides and monkeybars of Washington Square Park's playground.

They don't quite make it there. A shriek, several swear words and a squeal are emitted from Maureen's mouth before she rams head-on into a man that Maureen, Roger, Collins and Benny are all too familiar with.

He leers at her, and Maureen shies away, not wanting Mark to see the scars up and down the drug dealer's arms and face, nor the packets of powder and needles he hides in a translucent paper bag. Those are questions she wants to forestall as long as possible, and the last thing she needs is for Mark to start asking them now, only to receive no answers.

"Hey," Collins, the first to catch up with Maureen and Mark, snaps. "Watch it."

The Man sneers at him, causing Collins to draw back his fist. "Hey. You mess with Maureen, you mess with – "

"Collins."

Collins, Maureen and Mark turn to face Roger. "Collins, it's enough," Roger says firmly. He then approaches The Man and murmurs something that is inaudible to Mark, particularly because Maureen's hands are covering his ears. As Roger continues to communicate with the other man, it is clear that Collins is furious.

"Why does he have to keep doing that?" he fumes to Maureen and a heavily panting Benny, who has just joined the group. "He knows he can stop – he _can _stop – doesn't he know that this is what killed April – "

Roger tears himself away from The Man, a fresh bulge in his shirt pocket. "Kay," he says to Mark, in a voice that sounds stronger and fuller than it had been before. "Ready? Let's go on the playground."

With that, Maureen (carrying Mark) races Roger to the monkeybars, and as they laugh and play together, Benny and Collins are left to their slower pace, with no desire to catch up to the three "minors" – at least, not yet.

Collins looks at Benny steadily. "Do _you _think he should quit?" he asks the other man.

Benny chooses his words carefully. "I think… I think the knowledge that he has it, that he has that one constant if nothing else, makes him happier. Makes him easier to be around. When we try to get him to stop, he gets protective and angry. But do I think that he'd be better off completely drug-free, never even started it? Completely withdrawn, at least?"

Collins nods.

"Well… yes."

"Thank you!"

"But," Benny reminds him, "Even if he did quit now, it would take forever for him to finish the withdrawal process. And while it went on, he'd be _awful_. Imagine what would happen to Mark."

Collins looks as though it hadn't occurred to him. "What would happen to him?"

"You _know_," Benny tells him firmly. "Roger, for one thing, would get irritable. Angry, frustrated, desperate. Violent, even. Maybe. Mark can't – can't witness that again. It would ruin everything for him, really."

"But," Collins says evenly, "It could happen the opposite. Mark could ground Roger, could remind him that he has something to work for, and because of Mark's presence, Roger would be better about it. Wouldn't get so violent and mad and scary. He'd remember Mark, and Mark would keep him in line – and we can't do that."

Benny deliberates. "That's a possibility," he admits. "But if it had been April…"

Collins shakes his head. "Roger's not like April. April wouldn't latch herself onto one person like that. But Roger – he always has one person that he's incredibly close to, and he lives for that person, and if anything happens to him or her…" He trails off, drawing to mind images of Roger just after his girlfriend's death: shooting up, cutting, and spending weeks at a time without saying a single word. "So if that was Mark… if Mark was that one person… Roger would make everything about Mark. He'd be the one to make him smile and laugh and would, even at five, control every single thing that Roger would do – without even knowing it. If Roger lived to make Mark happy, then the withdrawal would be easier for all of us."

"Perhaps," Benny agrees, his face stony.

"Perhaps," repeats Collins.

They lapse into silence and spot a bench, which they both sit on to think. At last Benny says something. "There's something else I wanted to talk about, too."

"Which is?" Collins asks.

"I think we should talk to a lawyer. See what we can do about Mark's father, see if we can get legal custody of him and get Cohen sent to jail."

Before Benny even finishes his sentence, Collins is shaking his head. He looks at Benny sternly. "First of all, we probably wouldn't get custody of him. For finding him on the street? No way. He'd go to a relative, if he had one – and that would be a disaster. Grandparents, maybe – most parents that abuse their kids were abused as a child, and that'd only lead to a repeat of what already happened to him. Besides – Roger. Mark loves Roger now. Loves all of us. I don't want to take him away from that."

Benny nods. He doesn't say what's on his mind: _how stoned are_ _you, Collins? _He knows that on days when Collins is wise and thoughtful like this, it usually means that he's having a good day. Benny doesn't want to ruin it.

Continues the philosopher, "But you're right, Cohen should go to jail. I don't know how to do that without exposing Mark to any change right now, though."

"We should talk to a lawyer," Benny says immediately. "See how we can do this."

"Yeah," Collins agrees. "A lawyer. Mimi should come too, if you think you guys are close enough – "

"We're not," Benny interrupts shortly, and leaves it at that. "She's – just a thing. Baggage, you know. She called me baggage once, actually."

Collins looks closely at Benny. After a long moment of carefully formulating his next sentence, Collins speaks again. "Her beeper went off earlier," he tells him quietly. "Do you think she has – like me and Roger, I mean?"

Benny takes a deep breath. "I… I'm not sure. If she does – then I might. If I do – oh, god."

Collins just claps Benny on the shoulder. "I really hope you don't," he says honestly. "Besides, can you imagine how much Maureen would be gloating about being the only HIV-negative one of us? It'd be a disaster."

Benny laughs weakly. "Want to come with me to get me checked out, say, tomorrow?"

Collins shrugs. "Sure."

The two men join Maureen, Mark, and Roger by the playground. They laugh in the right moments: as Mark pokes Roger's shoulder with a wood splinter playfully; as Maureen is deemed "unfit for children's society" by a troop of nine-year-old Girl Scouts, referring to her short skirt; as Collins runs around searching for a vending machine, needing a beverage with which to swallow his AZT.

An eight-year-old boy calls Mark stupid and ugly. Mark cringes, not knowing how to react, and experiences a hard, painful punch in the eye as a result of not moving to avoid the pun'shmit. Heartbreaking as it is at that particular moment, it is far more amusing when Roger corners the boy and they exchange punches. They both retreat with black eyes, as well as a bleeding cut on the bully's forearm and a throbbing bump on Roger's chin. He doesn't seem to notice, however; he's too busy scooping Mark up into his arms and twirling him around.

It is Maureen's idea to let Mark try everything on the playground, seeing as he's never been to one before. Mark whimpers when Roger and Collins help him across the monkeybars, especially when Mark is kicked in the shin by an eleven-year-old trying to make his way across "the lava". Collins, of course, takes care of him, insisting that Roger is "too worn out from the last kid you thrashed, eh, Rog?" The boy pales and drops the bar immediately, running away – probably home to his mother, according to Roger.

After the monkey bars, Mark is escorted by Benny, Collins, Maureen and Roger to the see-saw. As the lightest, Maureen offers to sit on the other side of Mark, but he shies away, insisting that it's "too scary". Benny, who had grown up with a father that wouldn't take no for an answer in any circumstance, wants to put Mark on the see-saw anyway and show him that there's nothing wrong with it, but Roger stops him. "The kid's afraid of enough already," Roger insists, a hand on Benny's chest to stop him from moving. "Want him to be scared of you? Didn't think so."

Next they try the swings. Mark, who is simply too small and too afraid to be put on a big swing, refuses to sit on any swing but the baby one. As Collins places him in the swing obviously intended for those under two years old, Mark shivers a little. The playground idea terrifies him as much as it fascinates him. When Collins and Benny alternate pushing him, while Roger and Maureen swing on his either side, Mark shifts uncomfortably. His swing crashes into Maureen's twice, but she doesn't mind – she bumps him back playfully, just gently enough to let him know that she's just playing.

After the swings, which Mark enjoys to a shocking extent, the group marches over to the slide. The climb to the top of the jungle gym, where the slide begins, is uneventful, but the moment Roger tries to place Mark at the head of the tunnel slide, the five-year-old shrieks and buries his head in Roger's shirt. "Dark. Scary. Big. High. Don't – don' wanna."

Roger sighs. "It's okay, Mark, you don't have to," he says gently.

Benny _tsk_s irritatedly.

"Benny!" Collins and Roger chorus. Maureen, however, is preoccupied: a six-year-old nearby has dropped his lollipop, and Maureen is busily removing all the dirt from it, mostly with her fingers and tongue. "That's disgusting, Reen," Collins remarks, and pretends to vomit as the child skips away happily, lollipop in hand. "Do you _have _to act like a sex fiend?"

Maureen shrugs. Skirt as short as it is, she decides then and there that it is appropriate to walk rather than on the path of steps on the jungle gym, on the railings that are typically used for armrests. Of course, this means that her legs are spread obscenely, and passing ten-year-olds are jumping up and down as they pass, trying to – who knows.

When the entire group reaches the bottom of the jungle gym once more, Roger encourages Mark, "Marky, you wanna pick something out for us to do?"

Mark bites his lip and looks around carefully, making the decision as though it is the last one he will ever make. He wants it to be a good one. At last, his finger jabs out at revolving circular platform known more commonly as a merry-go-round – playground-style, of course.

Now sitting atop Roger's shoulders, Mark watches the rest of the playground function while he and his companions make their way over to the merry-go-round. Upon arrival, Roger carefully gets Mark down from his shoulders and turns to the two young girls already occupying the carousel. "Off," he says shortly, and they flee, erupting into giggles once they reach the hopscotch boards. They are most likely discussing Roger's hair.

"Pookie," Maureen says abruptly. She's already straddled her portion of the merry-go-round, legs ducking under the bars on either side. Her feet rest atop the second bar from her on either side, occupied by Collins on the left and Roger on the right. Mark looks up at Maureen, and she offers, "You wanna sit with me, Pookie, love? You can sit up here on the bar, and I'll hold you so you don't fall off. Kay?"

Mark nods, eyes wide, and does so. It is fairly obvious that he feels most comfortable trying "dang'rous" activities with Maureen, probably because she's the most aware when it comes to such things. After all, this is the twenty-three-year-old Lower East Side girl commonly known as the East Village "Protestress". Raised in a wealthy household, it is shocking that the drama queen has adapted so well to so risky a lifestyle, but she has – probably better than any of the others. Mark, it seems, has caught on to this, though probably in simpler terms, and also seems aware of the fact that while Roger is his new "protector", Maureen is the danger-seeker, the one he'd rather have holding him while sliding down the banister. Roger, on the other hand, Mark would like to be held by as he drifts off to sleep.

Benny is the designated pusher, the one who has to stand outside the merry-go-round and, as Roger so eloquently puts it, "make it move". And make it move he does: as the strongest and heaviest of the group, Benny exercises the most control over the carousel, starting it off slow so as not to surprise Mark (though startling the dozing-off Roger would be a plus), and allowing it to go faster and faster as Mark's eyes widen and smile grows. Eventually, it is spinning at so incredible a rate that Maureen, who is prone to seasickness (though she's never been on a boat) and airsickness (though she hasn't been on a plane in six years), leans over and vomits all over a three-year-old boy trying to build a sandcastle. He responds by whacking Maureen in the head with his shovel, and Maureen giggles.

"When I was your age," she yells as she passes him, "I was way better at whacking people."

The little boy whacks her twice this time, and she ducks the second time. The shovel hits Mark, of course, who cringes but doesn't seem particularly distressed. After all, it's only _plastic_, and he's been hit by _real_ shovels before (though not with a particular amount of force).

Eventually, the carousel ride comes to a stop. Roger is the first off, and before Maureen can even let Mark dismount the merry-go-round, he slides under her legs and runs over to Roger, hugging him. "So fun," he breathes into the man's shoulder. "C'n we do't again? I wanna – wanna – wanna do't again. T'morrow? Please?" He looks up at Roger hopefully. "So super duper fun."

Roger smiles warmly at Mark and bounces the boy up into his arms. "We can do this _every _day if it makes you happy," he promises the child, and kisses him on the forehead. "Now. Do you wanna go home or have ice cream."

"Ice cream?" repeats Mark, unfamiliar with the term.

Collins chortles a bit. "Come on, Marky-poo," he says, throwing an arm around Roger's shoulder to get closer to the little boy. "Let's go get you home. Ice cream, another day."


	10. Super Fun is Relative

"See ya, Jon," Collins calls as he exits the café. The writer looks up momentarily from his notebook to wave to his departing friends before returning to the pen and paper, enthralled once more as Roger is with his guitar, and Maureen is with any microphone she can get her hands on, and Benny with papery green wads of cash, and –

And Mark is with Roger, of course.

There is no denying that Roger fascinates Mark, demonstrated by Mark's frequent glances up at Roger from his position, nestled in Maureen's arms. "Roger has pretty eyes," he tells himself every few minutes, and though it becomes annoying after twenty minutes of aimless walking, nobody really wants Mark to stop. Or, rather, nobody really wants to _tell _Mark to stop.

"Oooh, guys, look!" Maureen squeals at one point. "A _playground_!"

With that, she (holding Mark) dashes to the crosswalk and leaps across in four easy strides the second the WALK sign is illuminated. Chances are, had it not lit up at that very moment, Maureen would have raced across anyway. The running seems to entertain Mark, however, because he giggles and reaches up to touch Maureen's hair as they leap over sidewalk cracks, heading for the swirly slides and monkeybars of Washington Square Park's playground.

They don't quite make it there. A shriek, several swear words and a squeal are emitted from Maureen's mouth before she rams head-on into a man that Maureen, Roger, Collins and Benny are all too familiar with.

He leers at her, and Maureen shies away, not wanting Mark to see the scars up and down the drug dealer's arms and face, nor the packets of powder and needles he hides in a translucent paper bag. Those are questions she wants to forestall as long as possible, and the last thing she needs is for Mark to start asking them now, only to receive no answers.

"Hey," Collins, the first to catch up with Maureen and Mark, snaps. "Watch it."

The Man sneers at him, causing Collins to draw back his fist. "Hey. You mess with Maureen, you mess with – "

"Collins."

Collins, Maureen and Mark turn to face Roger. "Collins, it's enough," Roger says firmly. He then approaches The Man and murmurs something that is inaudible to Mark, particularly because Maureen's hands are covering his ears. As Roger continues to communicate with the other man, it is clear that Collins is furious.

"Why does he have to keep doing that?" he fumes to Maureen and a heavily panting Benny, who has just joined the group. "He knows he can stop – he _can _stop – doesn't he know that this is what killed April – "

Roger tears himself away from The Man, a fresh bulge in his shirt pocket. "Kay," he says to Mark, in a voice that sounds stronger and fuller than it had been before. "Ready? Let's go on the playground."

With that, Maureen (carrying Mark) races Roger to the monkeybars, and as they laugh and play together, Benny and Collins are left to their slower pace, with no desire to catch up to the three "minors" – at least, not yet.

Collins looks at Benny steadily. "Do _you _think he should quit?" he asks the other man.

Benny chooses his words carefully. "I think… I think the knowledge that he has it, that he has that one constant if nothing else, makes him happier. Makes him easier to be around. When we try to get him to stop, he gets protective and angry. But do I think that he'd be better off completely drug-free, never even started it? Completely withdrawn, at least?"

Collins nods.

"Well… yes."

"Thank you!"

"But," Benny reminds him, "Even if he did quit now, it would take forever for him to finish the withdrawal process. And while it went on, he'd be _awful_. Imagine what would happen to Mark."

Collins looks as though it hadn't occurred to him. "What would happen to him?"

"You _know_," Benny tells him firmly. "Roger, for one thing, would get irritable. Angry, frustrated, desperate. Violent, even. Maybe. Mark can't – can't witness that again. It would ruin everything for him, really."

"But," Collins says evenly, "It could happen the opposite. Mark could ground Roger, could remind him that he has something to work for, and because of Mark's presence, Roger would be better about it. Wouldn't get so violent and mad and scary. He'd remember Mark, and Mark would keep him in line – and we can't do that."

Benny deliberates. "That's a possibility," he admits. "But if it had been April…"

Collins shakes his head. "Roger's not like April. April wouldn't latch herself onto one person like that. But Roger – he always has one person that he's incredibly close to, and he lives for that person, and if anything happens to him or her…" He trails off, drawing to mind images of Roger just after his girlfriend's death: shooting up, cutting, and spending weeks at a time without saying a single word. "So if that was Mark… if Mark was that one person… Roger would make everything about Mark. He'd be the one to make him smile and laugh and would, even at five, control every single thing that Roger would do – without even knowing it. If Roger lived to make Mark happy, then the withdrawal would be easier for all of us."

"Perhaps," Benny agrees, his face stony.

"Perhaps," repeats Collins.

They lapse into silence and spot a bench, which they both sit on to think. At last Benny says something. "There's something else I wanted to talk about, too."

"Which is?" Collins asks.

"I think we should talk to a lawyer. See what we can do about Mark's father, see if we can get legal custody of him and get Cohen sent to jail."

Before Benny even finishes his sentence, Collins is shaking his head. He looks at Benny sternly. "First of all, we probably wouldn't get custody of him. For finding him on the street? No way. He'd go to a relative, if he had one – and that would be a disaster. Grandparents, maybe – most parents that abuse their kids were abused as a child, and that'd only lead to a repeat of what already happened to him. Besides – Roger. Mark loves Roger now. Loves all of us. I don't want to take him away from that."

Benny nods. He doesn't say what's on his mind: _how stoned are_ _you, Collins? _He knows that on days when Collins is wise and thoughtful like this, it usually means that he's having a good day. Benny doesn't want to ruin it.

Continues the philosopher, "But you're right, Cohen should go to jail. I don't know how to do that without exposing Mark to any change right now, though."

"We should talk to a lawyer," Benny says immediately. "See how we can do this."

"Yeah," Collins agrees. "A lawyer. Mimi should come too, if you think you guys are close enough – "

"We're not," Benny interrupts shortly, and leaves it at that. "She's – just a thing. Baggage, you know. She called me baggage once, actually."

Collins looks closely at Benny. After a long moment of carefully formulating his next sentence, Collins speaks again. "Her beeper went off earlier," he tells him quietly. "Do you think she has – like me and Roger, I mean?"

Benny takes a deep breath. "I… I'm not sure. If she does – then I might. If I do – oh, god."

Collins just claps Benny on the shoulder. "I really hope you don't," he says honestly. "Besides, can you imagine how much Maureen would be gloating about being the only HIV-negative one of us? It'd be a disaster."

Benny laughs weakly. "Want to come with me to get me checked out, say, tomorrow?"

Collins shrugs. "Sure."

The two men join Maureen, Mark, and Roger by the playground. They laugh in the right moments: as Mark pokes Roger's shoulder with a wood splinter playfully; as Maureen is deemed "unfit for children's society" by a troop of nine-year-old Girl Scouts, referring to her short skirt; as Collins runs around searching for a vending machine, needing a beverage with which to swallow his AZT.

An eight-year-old boy calls Mark stupid and ugly. Mark cringes, not knowing how to react, and experiences a hard, painful punch in the eye as a result of not moving to avoid the pun'shmit. Heartbreaking as it is at that particular moment, it is far more amusing when Roger corners the boy and they exchange punches. They both retreat with black eyes, as well as a bleeding cut on the bully's forearm and a throbbing bump on Roger's chin. He doesn't seem to notice, however; he's too busy scooping Mark up into his arms and twirling him around.

It is Maureen's idea to let Mark try everything on the playground, seeing as he's never been to one before. Mark whimpers when Roger and Collins help him across the monkeybars, especially when Mark is kicked in the shin by an eleven-year-old trying to make his way across "the lava". Collins, of course, takes care of him, insisting that Roger is "too worn out from the last kid you thrashed, eh, Rog?" The boy pales and drops the bar immediately, running away – probably home to his mother, according to Roger.

After the monkey bars, Mark is escorted by Benny, Collins, Maureen and Roger to the see-saw. As the lightest, Maureen offers to sit on the other side of Mark, but he shies away, insisting that it's "too scary". Benny, who had grown up with a father that wouldn't take no for an answer in any circumstance, wants to put Mark on the see-saw anyway and show him that there's nothing wrong with it, but Roger stops him. "The kid's afraid of enough already," Roger insists, a hand on Benny's chest to stop him from moving. "Want him to be scared of you? Didn't think so."

Next they try the swings. Mark, who is simply too small and too afraid to be put on a big swing, refuses to sit on any swing but the baby one. As Collins places him in the swing obviously intended for those under two years old, Mark shivers a little. The playground idea terrifies him as much as it fascinates him. When Collins and Benny alternate pushing him, while Roger and Maureen swing on his either side, Mark shifts uncomfortably. His swing crashes into Maureen's twice, but she doesn't mind – she bumps him back playfully, just gently enough to let him know that she's just playing.

After the swings, which Mark enjoys to a shocking extent, the group marches over to the slide. The climb to the top of the jungle gym, where the slide begins, is uneventful, but the moment Roger tries to place Mark at the head of the tunnel slide, the five-year-old shrieks and buries his head in Roger's shirt. "Dark. Scary. Big. High. Don't – don' wanna."

Roger sighs. "It's okay, Mark, you don't have to," he says gently.

Benny _tsk_s irritatedly.

"Benny!" Collins and Roger chorus. Maureen, however, is preoccupied: a six-year-old nearby has dropped his lollipop, and Maureen is busily removing all the dirt from it, mostly with her fingers and tongue. "That's disgusting, Reen," Collins remarks, and pretends to vomit as the child skips away happily, lollipop in hand. "Do you _have _to act like a sex fiend?"

Maureen shrugs. Skirt as short as it is, she decides then and there that it is appropriate to walk rather than on the path of steps on the jungle gym, on the railings that are typically used for armrests. Of course, this means that her legs are spread obscenely, and passing ten-year-olds are jumping up and down as they pass, trying to – who knows.

When the entire group reaches the bottom of the jungle gym once more, Roger encourages Mark, "Marky, you wanna pick something out for us to do?"

Mark bites his lip and looks around carefully, making the decision as though it is the last one he will ever make. He wants it to be a good one. At last, his finger jabs out at revolving circular platform known more commonly as a merry-go-round – playground-style, of course.

Now sitting atop Roger's shoulders, Mark watches the rest of the playground function while he and his companions make their way over to the merry-go-round. Upon arrival, Roger carefully gets Mark down from his shoulders and turns to the two young girls already occupying the carousel. "Off," he says shortly, and they flee, erupting into giggles once they reach the hopscotch boards. They are most likely discussing Roger's hair.

"Pookie," Maureen says abruptly. She's already straddled her portion of the merry-go-round, legs ducking under the bars on either side. Her feet rest atop the second bar from her on either side, occupied by Collins on the left and Roger on the right. Mark looks up at Maureen, and she offers, "You wanna sit with me, Pookie, love? You can sit up here on the bar, and I'll hold you so you don't fall off. Kay?"

Mark nods, eyes wide, and does so. It is fairly obvious that he feels most comfortable trying "dang'rous" activities with Maureen, probably because she's the most aware when it comes to such things. After all, this is the twenty-three-year-old Lower East Side girl commonly known as the East Village "Protestress". Raised in a wealthy household, it is shocking that the drama queen has adapted so well to so risky a lifestyle, but she has – probably better than any of the others. Mark, it seems, has caught on to this, though probably in simpler terms, and also seems aware of the fact that while Roger is his new "protector", Maureen is the danger-seeker, the one he'd rather have holding him while sliding down the banister. Roger, on the other hand, Mark would like to be held by as he drifts off to sleep.

Benny is the designated pusher, the one who has to stand outside the merry-go-round and, as Roger so eloquently puts it, "make it move". And make it move he does: as the strongest and heaviest of the group, Benny exercises the most control over the carousel, starting it off slow so as not to surprise Mark (though startling the dozing-off Roger would be a plus), and allowing it to go faster and faster as Mark's eyes widen and smile grows. Eventually, it is spinning at so incredible a rate that Maureen, who is prone to seasickness (though she's never been on a boat) and airsickness (though she hasn't been on a plane in six years), leans over and vomits all over a three-year-old boy trying to build a sandcastle. He responds by whacking Maureen in the head with his shovel, and Maureen giggles.

"When I was your age," she yells as she passes him, "I was way better at whacking people."

The little boy whacks her twice this time, and she ducks the second time. The shovel hits Mark, of course, who cringes but doesn't seem particularly distressed. After all, it's only _plastic_, and he's been hit by _real_ shovels before (though not with a particular amount of force).

Eventually, the carousel ride comes to a stop. Roger is the first off, and before Maureen can even let Mark dismount the merry-go-round, he slides under her legs and runs over to Roger, hugging him. "So fun," he breathes into the man's shoulder. "C'n we do't again? I wanna – wanna – wanna do't again. T'morrow? Please?" He looks up at Roger hopefully. "So super duper fun."

Roger smiles warmly at Mark and bounces the boy up into his arms. "We can do this _every _day if it makes you happy," he promises the child, and kisses him on the forehead. "Now. Do you wanna go home or have ice cream."

"Ice cream?" repeats Mark, unfamiliar with the term.

Collins chortles a bit. "Come on, Marky-poo," he says, throwing an arm around Roger's shoulder to get closer to the little boy. "Let's go get you home. Ice cream, another day."


	11. And We Thought Lawyers Were Scum

"Maureen, babe, can you watch Mark today?" Collins asks pleadingly. "Me, Roger, and Benny are going to go see a lawyer, see if we can work some stuff out, find out what we can do about Mark and his father."

Maureen spins around. "Me? Stay at home? Please. Let Roger stay here with Mark, he likes him better anyway."

Collins rolls his eyes. "Reen, you don't know how to behave in a lawyer's office," he points out.

"Sure I do!" she chirps. When Collins looks at her expectantly, she expands matter-of-factly, "Wear boring suits, cross your legs and smoke cigars paid for with your hard-scammed money."

Collins's eyes widen. For a moment Maureen is afraid he's going to turn down her request, but all he says is, "Fine, you can go. Just – don't wear that leather catsuit, please?"

Maureen winks at him. "I won't wear the _leather _one."

"Or the vinyl one!" he yells as her door slams shut. She yells out something unintelligible through the door, and it is drowned out by the sound of the shower, which Benny has been using for the past hour as Collins and Roger walk around in their underwear, and Maureen –

_Wow_.

When at last she emerges from her bedroom, Maureen is transformed. She is wearing her short plaid skirt, most likely a less-than-treasured keepsake reminder of her three weeks spent at a Catholic high school before hurriedly transferring to the public school Roger was attending at the same time – where they'd met, prom night, having abandoned their dates in pursuit of alcohol. They'd eventually found it, smuggled into the jacket pocket of T. Mann, an apparently nameless twelfth-grader who'd been a twelfth-grader for at least four years, infamous for his predilection towards the forbidden drugs, alcohol, and sex.

The skirt is even pinned up to shorten it a bit, Collins realized. Almost enough to make him wish he were straight – but Maureen is famous for doing that. She is also wearing a three-quarter-sleeve scarlet shirt with three buttons, all of which she has left undone. Naturally, much cleavage is exposed.

"Maureen!" Collins hisses. "You can't wear that!"

At that very minute, Benny ambles out of the shower. "Sure she can," he insists, spotting Maureen, and disappears into his and Roger's room. A moment later, there is a yelp and Benny scurries out, back into the bathroom. Mark giggles.

Roger is the next to catch sight of Maureen, and he bursts into hysterical laughter. Once he regains control of himself, he claps Maureen on the shoulder. "You planning to come with us, like that?"

"Come with _them_," she corrects him. "I'm going, you're staying. Case closed."

With that, she swings her hips and departs.

Roger stares after her. "Sometimes she is a _bitch_," he informs Collins, and more giggles sound from his room. Roger enters the room to discover the tiny blonde nestled up in bed, but the moment he catches sight of Roger, he sits up abruptly. "Roger!" he shrieks.

The musician parks himself on his bed – Mark's bed, now – and scoops the little boy into his lap. "Hey, Marky," he says, stroking the blonde's hair. "Guess what?"

"What?" Mark asks, stifling a yawn as he relaxes against Roger's strong arms. He wraps his arms lovingly around Roger's neck and rests his head on Roger's shoulder. "Warm."

Roger is so taken by Mark's cuteness that he almost forgets what he was going to say. When he remembers, he informs Mark, "Reen, Collins, and Benny are going somewhere today," he announces. "I'm gonna stay with you. We can play Monopoly. Kay?"

Mark cocks his head. "Nop-ly?"

Roger laughs. "It's a game," he explains lightly. "Fun."

"Fun," echoes Mark.

"So we get the house all to ourselves," Roger concludes. "We can do whatever we want. Drink out of the carton, forget our AZT – " he breaks off and smiles apologetically. "Well. I can't do _that_."

Mark doesn't ask what AZT is. Sometimes Roger does that, say things that confuse Mark so much he doesn't even know how to go about asking questions. But Mark doesn't mind. He just likes nestling against Roger's warmth and hug him and hold him and tell him he loves him. It doesn't bother Mark to not understand every word Roger says. He doubts that he would understand even with an explanation, anyway.

"Kay," Mark says, and that's that.

Meanwhile, Maureen has somehow been forced into a long coat, cut off at the knees, and dress shoes. She, between Benny and Collins, is marched out of the loft onto the fire escape. That is Maureen's preferred way of leaving the loft, since, she says, it is faster, more scenic, and _refreshing _to be outside rather than in.

As the window slams closed behind them (Benny has the most difficulty climbing out), a rush of warm air wraps the three adults in a blanket. Maureen, deciding stairs are overrated, uses her amazing flexibility to climb from the sixth-floor fire escape stairwell down to the sidewalk below in three smooth descending motions of her long, pale legs, exposed as her coat slides up. Benny ogles her shamelessly – never having quite recovered from his old attraction to her – and Collins, indifferent, begins his descent down the stairs without a second glance at the young woman hovering below him. After a moment, Benny does as well, muttering about how ridiculous it is that Tom Collins can't recognize a good female form when he sees one.

After an agonizingly silent subway ride, the three bohemians enter the twelve-story building that is home to lawfirm Prewett, Hopkins and Jefferson, or PH&J. Benny agrees to "handle it," and does so; he gives their names to those at the front desk, and fifteen minutes, they enter the law office of family lawyer Joanne Jefferson.

"Hello," she says warmly, arranging papers on her desk as they come in. "I'm Joanne Jefferson. How are you?"

Maureen responds first, of course. "Hi, I'm Maureen," she babbles, looking a tad uncomfortable, somehow. "Maureen Johnson. And – and this is Benny, Benjamin Coffin the third or fourth or something, and Tom Collins." She then swiftly crosses the room, hangs up her coat on the coat rack, and arranges herself comfortably in a cushioned chair, crossing her legs over each other, offering Joanne a _very _open view of Maureen's –

"Nice to meet you," Joanne announces, extending a hand to Maureen. "And you, and you – now. What brings you here today?"

Maureen opens her mouth, but Benny cuts her off. "Well, I can't go into too much detail," he warns Joanne, and then continues, "Okay. So we found this kid sitting on the street. Mark. And so we – "

"Who's we?" Joanne cuts him off. "You three?"

"No, actually," Benny replies. "Me, Co – Tom over there, and Roger. Roger Davis. Our roommate. Anyways, as I was saying, we asked Mark why he was there, and Mark said his dad told him to sit outside with the trash."

Joanne nods, looking very strained, as though it takes a lot of strength for her not to show her disgust – it is obvious that she deals with this every day, and loathes it none the less for all its consistency. "Go on," she encourages Benny in a perfectly composed voice.

"Well, he was starving, so we took him to this café we eat at, and Mark said stuff about how his dad doesn't let him eat, and punishes him if he has to."

"Asshole," Maureen chimes in, her knees now tucked under her and offering a view to Joanne that is no less revealing despite the fact that it is, by definition, more modest than her previous position. "He _is_. He even told Mark he couldn't – "

"I'm _getting _to that," Benny hisses. "Shut up, Maureen." He clears his throat and continues, "So after that we ran into Maureen, and we took Mark home and gave him a bath and stuff, and got him clothes. Then my – uh – my – "

"Friend," Collins supplies.

"Yeah. My _friend _Mimi, she showed up, and she said she knew Mark, said she knew his dad."

"His dad did all this bad shit to them," Maureen announces. "He made Mimi be his own whore while her – office – had renovations. Yeah."

"Shut _up_, Maureen," Collins and Benny chorus. "Can't you be quiet for an eighth of a second?"

"Sure," Maureen replies. "If you want me to be quiet and not get anything done. I'm being _nice_," she explains. "I want Mark to get help. Mimi, too. I want – I want them to fix this bullshit."

Joanne reviews her notes, and at last she looks up. "I think I can manage this case," she says.

"Case?" Maureen repeats distastefully. "Since when is it a – "

Benny's hand collides with her mouth, and Maureen slides into silence.

"How much?" Benny asks carefully.

"Yet to be determined," the woman says. "I'd like to meet with these others – Mimi and Roger, and even Mark's father if possible. Does Mark have a last name that you know of?"

"Cohen," Maureen and Benny chorus.

"Good." Joanne scribbles it down with her notes, and then resurfaces. "So I'll call you back – I believe I have your telephone number written down, or my secretary does – and schedule more appointments."

Maureen springs out of her chair, forgetting the length (or lack thereof) of her skirt, and ends up flashing the entire room. Collins chuckles at Maureen's complete indifference to the fact that her pale rear end (tattoo and all) have just been revealed to Benny (who has accidentally seen Maureen naked several times), Collins (who hardly cares, due to his sexuality), and Joanne – a completely scandalized lawyer who appears not to have seen it all, which she clearly believed up until the very moment she met Maureen.

Joanne follows Benny, Collins and Maureen out of the office, and while Benny discusses some superfluous thing with the receptionist, Maureen follows Joanne to the filing cabinet. "Hey," she says lightly. "I was just, just wondering – would you like to go have a coffee with me somewhere? It'd be – really fun."

The lawyer doesn't even meet Maureen's eyes. However, she allows "I'd love to" to slide through her lips, and by the time Benny turns around, his wallet thirty dollars lighter, Maureen has disappeared in a flash of auburn curls, and Collins can hardly stand from laughing so hard. "Smooth," the men chorus, and they dig out their MetroCards and head for the One Train.


	12. Monopolizing Monopoly

Maureen, for once, feels awkward. It is an odd feeling for her because she has never, for as long as she can remember, felt awkward before. Confident, pretty and charismatic (when she wants to be), Maureen Johnson rarely feels out-of-place, no matter the situation. But here, standing in the rain while Joanne attempts to hail a taxi – here Maureen feels awkward. The rain slaps her cheeks and hair, and every new drop causes her to glance upward to see if the sky shows any indication of stopping this nonsense.

"It's wet," she announces, trying to get attention. "Maybe we should just go hang out at my place. You can meet Mark and Roger, if you want."

Joanne nods. "That sounds fine," she agrees.

It is then that a cab swerves over to the two women, its VACANCY and OFF-DUTY lights illuminated. The driver rolls down the passenger-side window and demands, "Where you going?"

As rain pitter-pats against Maureen's head, she yells over the noise of traffic, "Ninth and B!"

The driver scoffs, as though disbelieving that a girl living on Ninth Street and Avenue B could possibly even consider affording a cab. "Get in," he grunts, unlocking the back doors. The women hurriedly scramble to enter amid the noise of honking horns and raindrops snapping against the car's hood and the rear windows. Once the door slams shut and the taxi begins moving, Maureen rests her head on Joanne's shoulder.

Joanne has no idea what to say, so she simply allows Maureen to keep her head there (against her will). And yet Joanne can't escape the claustrophobia of the yellow cab fast enough when they reach the northeast corner of Ninth and B. Standing out in the rain, Joanne extends her wallet to Maureen, who counts out pennies in order to give the driver _exact change_. By the time Maureen closes the cab door and leads Joanne to the front steps of her building, Joanne is very aggravated and Maureen about as restless as a six-year-old girl waiting for her best friend to come over for a play-date.

The brunette's keys jingle for a few moments as Joanne resists the urge to roughly snatch the keys and unlock the door herself. When at last it swings open, Maureen ushers Joanne inside before entering, and once the door is closed behind them, Maureen gestures to the six flights of stairs awaiting them. "Better get climbing," she announces. "Six flights." She cranes her neck backwards to face the ceiling (barely visible at such a height) and roars, "ROGER, OPEN THE DOOR!"

The women begin ascending the stairs, and they are halfway to the second floor by the time a child's giggling becomes audible. "That's Mark," Maureen tells her companion, and then looks up again. "ROGER, I SAID OPEN THE DOOR!" she screams. A woman in an apartment on the second floor screams for her to shut up, and Maureen responds by spitting on the doorknob to said apartment. "My neighbor Ella," she informs Joanne.

"How long have you been feuding?" Joanne asks curiously. "Or does this apply to just people in particular?"

Maureen laughs, instead of the sulk Joanne had half-expected. "Nah, Ella's been a bitch to me since I moved in. I _happened _to drop glass on the floor and told her to clean it up while I was carrying boxes, and she said if I didn't get it, she'd call the cops – which she did."

Joanne raises an eyebrow. "Seems a bit of an unnecessary reaction," she murmurs. "No legal grounds whatsoever." At Maureen's astonished look, Joanne blushes. "Well – I just happen to think in legal terms, that's all," she mumbles. "Sorry."

Silence ensues, and when Maureen reaches the fourth floor, she screams again, "ROGER, OPEN THE DOOR!"

"OPEN IT YOUR DAMN SELF, MAUREEN!" Roger bellows, and Mark giggles, audible even from two floors below. "AND SHUT THE FUCK UP WHILE YOU'RE AT IT!" he adds. Then there is a creaking sound, and the door slides open (now one and a half flights of stairs above Maureen and Joanne), releasing a very excited five-year-old boy.

"Reen!" Mark shrieks, bounding down the steps to wrap his arms around Maureen's left leg. "Reen-eeeee!" He stretches out the word gleefully. "Rog 'n me missed you lots!"

"Not true," Roger declares decisively from a few steps above, watching Mark and Maureen's exchange (as Joanne stands lamely off to the sidelines). "I did not miss you one bit. So how was the lawyer? Was he a bastard? Did you have to pay him?"

Maureen stifles a giggle and jerks her thumb at Joanne. "Roger Davis, singer-slash-songwriter, meet Joanne Jefferson, lawyer. Joanne, Roger." As Roger gapes in a mixture of frustration, humiliation, and shock, Maureen giggles hysterically, probably frightening Mark, who still clutches to Maureen's leg.

"Nice to meet you," Joanne says formally, extending her hand to Roger. "It's all right," she says dryly when Roger continues to resemble a wide-mouthed tree frog. "I'll just erase all those slips. It's _fine_."

"Off the record?" Roger clarifies, beginning to ascend the stairs again with his three companions in tow.

"Completely," Joanne agrees, sounding as though she herself would actually like to forget the entire situation. "Joanne Jefferson." Now at last she shakes Roger's hand, stopping awkwardly in the middle of the staircase to do so, and adds, "I assume this is Mark?" She gestures to the now-quiet little blonde, wordlessly chewing on his thumbnail as Maureen piggybacks him up the stairs.

"Yeah," Roger says, voice filled with unbridled affection for the child. "But I'm sure you knew that already." Rule Number One About Lawyers: Never trust them when they claim ignorance or uncertainty. Roger perfected his list of the top twelve keys to dealing with lawyers over a visit at age sixteen with his uncle, a private attorney. And now it is finally proven that his rules apply to all lawyers, or at least a good portion of them – not just Uncle Howard.

"I did," Joanne admits, and they reach the door to the loft, slid wide open. Somehow Collins and Benny have arrived inside – probably through the fire escape. Maureen deposits Mark on the ground and enters first, followed by Roger, Mark, and finally Joanne, who surveys the apartment with poorly concealed distaste.

"Don't like it?" Benny asks loudly, and Joanne flushes – invisible on her dark skin, but humiliating nonetheless.

"No – I mean, well," she stammers helplessly, "It's lovely and spacious. And it has a nice view." Joanne pauses for half a beat, and then proposes, "If it's all right with all of you, I'd like to speak with Mark privately about his encounters with his F-A-T-H-E-R."

Collins whistles. "Clever move."

"Go right ahead," Roger tells her, swinging the door to his room open. "Take as long as you'd like. Just don't look under the bed, that's Benny's, ahem, pri – "

In one smooth motion, Benny hoists himself off of the couch, crosses the room, and slaps a hand over Roger's mouth. "Don't mind Roger," he tells Joanne. "By all means, speak to Mark. And for privacy's sake, close the door, maybe?"

Joanne takes Benny's advice (probably having already been pre-formulated in her head) and closes the door behind herself and Mark. Soft voices are hazily audible through the stony walls, but neither Benny, Roger, Maureen nor Collins has any particular desire to listen in (or at least, none would own up to it). It is that which drives the quartet to small talk.

"Monopoly?" Roger offers, gesturing to the aged board game, for some reason seated on top of the scarcely-occupied refridgerator. It is a mystery as to how the starving bohemians initially acquired the game: Benny claims to have purchased it; Maureen argues that it was left from the loft's previous occupants; Collins oftentimes explodes that he bought it and forgot about it until the subject was raised; Roger diplomatically suggests that perhaps it was a gift from a landlord or a friend.

And so twelve-point-four minutes later, as Benny and Collins argue heatedly ("You go to jail!" "No, you go to jail!") and Maureen debates potential names for her playing piece (the admittedly adorable dog), Roger anxiously awaits the return of Mark and Joanne. He leafs listlessly through his only remaining bills (four ones and a ten) and enviously admires Benny's stack of bright orange five-hundred dollar bills.

Thankfully, just at the moment when Collins threatens Benny with the destruction of his precious job applications, Mark and Joanne emerge from Roger's room to witness a frozen scene: Collins and Benny are paused in the middle of a fistfight, Maureen is waiting for the go-ahead to continue singing to "her" dog, and Roger is mid-way through a tune-up of his imaginary (nonexistent) guitar.

"Right," Joanne says loudly. "Well, I'll just go now."

And with that she shuffles out of the room, allowing four and a half very confused bohemians to watch her departure for a moment before Mark hops onto Roger's lap and the game commences, with Benny and Collins sharing a playing piece (the bag of money) to prevent further arguments. Roger, for one, skids around the gameboard in his pewter racecar and imagines that it is real. After all, make-believe is no more juvenile than Collins and Benny's behavior, nor Maureen's, so how could Roger possibly be blamed for fantastic imaginings?


	13. Notes and Musings

Joanne Jefferson knows how to deal with emotions. On the rare occasions that hers should bubble to the surface, she prevents them from becoming visible to the naked eye by covering them up with false emotions. Irritation is easy for her to deal with, as is frustration. She simply grits her teeth and concentrates on the light at the end of the tunnel, which is, in most cases, her break. She can hide sadness as well, though it is a rare occasion indeed that something out-of-the-ordinary enough should happen that Joanne will actually feel _sad _about it. The death of her dachshund had certainly fit into that category, but it was easily masked by Joanne's passionate approach to Marietta Rosenthal's civil rights and sexual harassment case.

Something Joanne never learned to be prepared for is getting _too _caught up in a case. That, she knows all too well, is a dangerous way to handle a case, particularly in the beginning. She knows that if she becomes too attached to any one case, the others will suffer – and ironically, so will the one she is so devoted to, because smothering does more harm than good. Joanne's way of working on all cases evenly works well, and provides each case with a balance of concentration and casualness. That way, she can't overdo anything, but she can't _under_do anything either. It is an excellent system.

But now she has a problem. After hearing Mark's tales of abuse suffered at the hands of his father, Joanne is furious, passionate, and far too emotionally involved. She has been dragged into the pit of anxiety that contains the loft's inhabitants, Mimi, and Jacob Cohen – and now, Joanne as well. "Laura, bring me a coffee," Joanne calls weakly to her assistant as she considers the case. Its core is evidently child abuse, but the added complication of Mimi brings the case to a whole new level, a plane that Joanne has never dealt with before.

Joanne takes the coffee from Laura and thanks her, continuing her thoughts while reviewing her yellow legal pad (the insignia "Prewett, Hopkins and Jefferson" emblazoned on the binding) full of notes regarding the Cohen v. Cohen case. In fact, she's not even entirely certain that the name of the case is accurate. Who initiated the lawsuit, if this is, in fact, a lawsuit? Surely that's an important question, and surely it wasn't Mark who proposed that there be a case. Maybe a different angle would alter the case a bit. Maybe… what was it? _Marquez _v. Cohen…

But no; the child abuse angle provokes more sympathy, and Joanne doesn't have enough information yet to determine whether or not Mimi's… treatment… was a mutual agreement. If it was, there are no grounds for accusations there, but if Mr. Cohen did anything to uneven the playing field while making the arrangement with Mimi, _then _there's something. That's… what is that? Sexual harassment? Sexual abuse? Rape? It seems like a twisted combination of the three, but there's only going to be enough for the case to make an impression _if_…

Joanne's fingers fly across her office telephone before she even realizes what she's doing. Three rings, and then – "Hello, this is Joanne Jefferson, the lawyer you were speaking with earlier. Oh, hello, Mr. Davis. Roger? Fine. Well, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was organizing some notes for my case when I realized that there's a vital piece of information I'm lacking." She pauses. "Yes, I see. Well, this Mimi… could I possibly have her contact information so that I could schedule an appointment with her? …Oh. I see. Yes. Well, her telephone number… yes, I have a pen." In her neat, precise handwriting, Joanne copies down the number dictated to her, and then repeats it. "Thank you so much, Roger. I'll be in touch."

A few clicks on her keyboard later, and Joanne is proudly reviewing the results of her search. According to the records on the building in which the loft resides, fifth-floor renter Mimi Marquez was born in March of 1970, so in the summer of 1988… she is eighteen now. Oh, certainly there is something to build there, even if eighteen was just a false number put down to legally rent an apartment. Regardless, she certainly _was _underage, or just past it, at the time of the affair – perfect.

Several minutes of typing pass, and Joanne then surveys her completed synopsis of the case as she knows it thus far: COHEN V. COHEN (working label). In the rather unconventional format she has chosen this time for her notes, it looks something like a screenplay. A few tweaks could make it look just like a script, she realizes idly.

_COHEN V. COHEN_

_  
Mark Cohen is five years old. He is blonde, has blue eyes, and is underfed, skinny and bruised. He has an inferiority complex ingrained from five years of beatings and harsh treatment. Mark is the son of Jacob Cohen and younger brother of thirteen-year-old Cindy Cohen. Mark alternatingly slept under his father's bed and on the laundry room floor while living with his father. He was beaten severely for trifling offenses such as dropping plates. He briefly was cared for by Mimi Marquez, Mr. Cohen's underaged personal prostitute. Mark currently lives with Roger Davis, Thomas Collins, Benjamin Coffin III, and Maureen Johnson. These four found Mark on the street recently, told by him that he had been instructed to stay by the garbage bags. One should note that Mark has an unusual attachment to Roger more so than the others._

Joanne nods. This seems about right. It could use some more details – Collins, perhaps, would be willing to provide a more detailed summary of how he and his friends had come to find Mark, while Mimi would be able to share with Joanne the details of life with Jacob Cohen. Ah, of course, Mimi. She knows she should call Mimi now, or soon, or – soon. Yes, soon. For now, she wants to go outside. So she does.

As the wind slaps her face, Joanne busily ties her scarf around her neck and doesn't notice the drumming figure kneeling beside a pickle tub in the middle of the sidewalk. "I'm sorry," Joanne insists breathily, still awed by the amazing day. "I am. Here – " she fumbles in her purse for a dollar. _Damn_. The lowest she has is a ten… and a moment later, a folded bill has been passed from one woman's hand to the drummer's.

"Thanks, honey," the performer rasps in a voice that sounds nearly as weak as little Mark's. "'Preciate it." With a bold gesture, he stands and embraces Joanne in a one-arm hug. Then he tucks the pickle jar under his arm and ducks into a deli.

Joanne returns to her office later, unscathed, yet somehow unable to erase the memory of the young man from her mind. It isn't attraction, it's simply recollection and idle longing for knowledge. And later, as she waits for the five-minutes-late Mimi Marquez to arrive for her appointment, Joanne stares out the window and sees the same drummer speaking with and hugging a young Hispanic girl in her late teens. When five minutes later the same girl arrives in Joanne's office, she wonders if irony exists in its sheer randomness and unpredictability.

She slides into lawyer mode immediately. "Hi," she says warmly, just as she did with Maureen and her friends, this time resisting temptation to shuffle her papers. "I'm Joanne Jefferson; I'm working on a case pertaining to Mark Cohen and his father, and I was informed that you were involved in this whole matter…"


	14. Let Her Entertain Us

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Roger looks up unconcernedly from his game of tickling Mark. "Yeah?" he yells.

"Roger!" comes a muffled noise from the other side of the door. "It's me. Mimi. Let me in."

The blonde immediately grabs Mark and, with the boy in hand, walks to the door and slides it open. "Hey, Mimi. What brings you to Casa Bohemia?"

She laughs. "Oh, I just got back from my meeting with whatshername, the lawyer. I thought you might maybe want to talk? See what we think about her, stuff like that?"

Roger shrugs. "Sounds good." He surveys the half-completed game of Monopoly still strewn across the table (the words "BENNY COFFIN MUST DIE" are scrawled on the back of a light blue fifty-dollar bill currently in Maureen's possession), and then returns to watching Mimi. "Benny and Collins are taking a walk," he informs her. "And Maureen is hanging out with a friend. So it's just you, me, and Marky-boy."

Upon the mention of his new nickname, Mark giggles, his laughter ringing pleasantly through the room. Mimi watches him and finds it impossible not to smile. "Dare you to watch him without smiling," she challenges Roger.

Roger snorts. "Impossible," he tells her knowingly. "He's just too cute, you know?" With that, Roger swings a leg over a corner of the unoccupied table next to the Monopoly-storing one, and with one leg on the table and one leg off, places Mark in his lap and begins studying him carefully. "Let's see. Blond hair, that's a definite. Blue eyes. Perfect round, angelic face. Rosy cheeks – yeah, I'd say this kid is the _definition _of cute."

"Probably," Mimi laughs. Talk of Joanne is long-forgotten as they take their seats beside the Monopoly board and begin playing. Mark (who now understands this game surprisingly well), plays for Benny and Collins, while Mimi plays for Maureen (and her dog, Toto). Roger, with a better knowledge of his own money and property, might be expected to excel, but to the others' surprise, when Benny and Collins (red-nosed and flushed) reenter the loft, Mark is leafing through his multicolored bills, preparing to buy hotels for a monopoly of the dark blue variety.

"Whoa!"

Mimi, Roger, and Mark turn to face their new companions. Since it is so unbearably hot, Roger and Mimi have their shirts slung over the couch (both wear undershirts supplied by Roger), inspired by Roger's declaration that it would become "PG-Rated Strip Monopoly – for Mark's sake, otherwise…" He had trailed off then, letting Mimi giggle before they were interrupted once again by Mark's collection of the Free Parking money.

"Hi," Roger says brightly. "You wanna join in? You guys can have your piece back, and I'll share with Mark, or we'll just give you s'more money and you can have your own team – so long's you don't try to kill each other again."

"You're drunk," Collins accuses flatly. He stomps over to Roger, who obediently opens his mouth. Collins sniffs Roger's breath and comes away frowning. "Okay, so you're not drunk." He eyes Roger's arms skeptically. "Turn 'em over," he orders. Roger does so, and Collins is stunned to see that there are no signs of any new injections. "Huh."

Benny snickers. "Maybe he's just got a crush, Collins," he offers, and while Roger doesn't blush, Mimi does – her pale cheeks darken to a light pink, matching her fan of five-dollar bills. "I've heard that can elate you." He crosses the room to join the game and hoists Mark in the air, straddles the chair Mark had been sitting on, and places Mark on his lap. "Wow, little man, you're good at this," he tells the five-year-old, who smiles charmingly.

"Thanks," Mark whispers, and then whispers something conspiratorially in Benny's ear, something that sounds like, "I cheat on paying f'r hotels."

"I heard that," Roger mutters, jealous of the child stealing his Monopoly-centric glory. Usually Roger is the best at this game, second only sometimes to Maureen. Collins places a new piece on the board, this one a wheelbarrow, and collects several thousand dollars from the bank. "By the way, guys, we're playing the Bohemia version."

Benny rolls his eyes. "And what, pray tell, is the _Bohemia version_?" he asks dryly.

"Well," Roger says cheekily, "The assholes like you guys ask for rent when people land on their property, and generous people like me'n Mimi here ask for clothing instead."

Collins abruptly stands up, walks across the room, and bundles up in a heavy coat, scarf, gloves and boots. He returns looking similar to a snowman. "There," he says decisively. "Now I'm safe from nudity. On my part, anyway."

"No nudity," Roger says quickly. "Mark's a little too young for that. Just down to – uh – boxers, then you start paying rent again instead of stripping."

Mimi clears her throat loudly.

"Well, Mimi can be naked – " Roger begins, but is cut off by booing and hissing on Collins and Benny's parts. "Oh, fine," he grumbles. "Mimi'll be down to her bra and underwear."

Mimi snickers. "What if I said I'm not wearing any?" she asks Roger seductively, and Roger hurriedly scoots his chair further under the table. His face is bright red, and as Benny and Collins watch him in amusement, Roger rolls the dice, reaches across the board to move his piece, and lands unhappily on the GO TO JAIL space.

"Yep, he's an outlaw all right," Collins drawls. "He's on the run from the law. Tell us, Rog, what'd you do that got you in such deep shit? Drug possession? Drug _sale_? Bad singing?"

The latter suggestion earns Collins a punch in the shoulder and a Smirnoff bottle cap aimed at his head as Roger chugs yet another vodka bottle. "Maybe," Benny says with a conspiratorial wink at Mimi, "he got in jail 'cause he got caught giving Smirnoff to Marky." Then Benny smiles. "Hey, Mark, you wanna try some – "

"NO!" yell Mimi, Collins and Roger, as well as Maureen in the doorway. It takes everyone a few minutes to turn and see her, and then acknowledge her presence. Somehow, Maureen's presence reminds Mimi of something, because she sits up abruptly and watches her friends fall into silence.

"Um, if we're not doing anything for a few minutes," Mimi begins carefully, "would you mind if I just step outside?"

"Sure," her companions agree, and Maureen takes over for Mimi; the game continues without her. The dynamics change dramatically over the time that Mimi is gone. Roger is released from jail, Benny is bankrupt ("Ha!" exclaims Collins, much to Benny's dismay), Maureen has established a lifestyle and career for her playing piece, Snookums the Poodle, and Mark is, well, a billionaire.

When Mimi returns, she announces her presence by simply sliding the door open. It takes a moment for the room's tenants to acknowledge her presence, and then acknowledge the presence of another new person as well. This one is small, dark-haired and dark-eyed, probably in his twenties.

"Hi," Mimi chirps. "Up for taking in another human stray?"

Mark stifles a giggle, but neither explains this sentiment nor is joined in his laughter by any other members of the group.

"This is my friend," Mimi announces. "Angel. Angel's not living anywhere right now, just on the streets until some more money starts coming in, but I just thought you might want to meet – "

Maureen cocks her head. "Angel? Isn't that a girl's name?"

Roger, Angel, and Mimi give Maureen identical, pointed looks. "Sometimes," Roger tells her carefully, just as he did several years ago when it first became necessary, "men might prefer the thought of being a woman."

"Sometimes I do," Collins declares, and a very uncomfortable silence liquefies the mixture of sweat and tension in the room. Mark and Maureen both snicker amusedly, Maureen because she actually understands what Collins is saying (and finds it funny); Mark because he is entertained by the seemingly unprovoked silence. Both, however, quickly quiet down.

Roger begins to whistle.

"Don't whistle," Mimi tells him.

"No, he can whistle," Collins argues.

Agrees Benny, "Nothing wrong with whistling."

Maureen shakes her head. "Whistling is stupid," she declares.

Mark shrugs. "I think Roger shou' get t'whis'le 'f he wants to," he mumbles.

"There," Roger says firmly. "Mark thinks I should whistle. So I will." He continues whistling.

Benny groans loudly. "Roger," he says as plainly and clearly as he can, "Mark just so happens to be _five_."

"So?"

The whole room (but for Angel, Collins, Mark and Roger) erupts in a groan and noise of disgust.

Angel eyes Collins with a flirtatious wink of her dark eyes.

"AHEM," Mimi says loudly from the doorway. She gestures to the figure supported only by herself and Maureen. "Angel, love, this is Maureen, Benny, Collins, Roger and Mark," she concludes, pointing at each person respectively.

"Aww," Angel coos in a bafflingly effeminate voice that startles the room's tenants. "The little one is _so _cute." She gets to her feet and delicately sits down in the chair no longer occupied by Mimi. "You're five, I bet," Angel tells Mark decisively, smiling at him.

Mark smiles and nods. "Uh-huh," he tells Angel. "'N a half!" He sounds immeasurably proud.

"Oh, you're pretty big," Angel tells him seriously. "Guess how old I am?"

"Ummmm…" Mark chews on his lip, deep in thought. Then he tilts his head to the side. "Firteen? M'sister Cindy's firteen."

"Nope," Angel tells him cheerily. "Long past thirteen. I'm actually – " she lowers her voice secretively – "twenty-four."

Mark's eyes widen. "That's big," he tells Angel in all seriousness. "Don't know how old Roger'n Collins'n Benny'n Maureen are." He looks expectantly at his companions.

Roger grumbles, "Twenty-three."

"Twenty-three," agrees Maureen, but she sounds gleeful about it.

"Old enough that it's rude to ask," Benny announces curtly, and inspects his playing piece carefully, suddenly finding it fascinating.

Collins smiles at Angel. "I'm twenty-eight," he tells her. "Is that too old for you?"

"Not at all," Angel tells him. "Somehow, Cranky McTwenty-Six here _is _too old," she adds, pointing to Benny. "Plus, he's too straight."

Benny, aghast, stares at Angel, who dances around the room gleefully. "Oh, I can predict anyone's age." She spins around and points to Mimi. "Eighteen."

Mimi snorts. "You knew that already," she accuses her friend. "Cheater. Guess how old… uh… how old is the Monopoly Guy?"

Angel _hmm_s a bit to herself, and after several moments of heavy calculating, declares, "Five hundred and twenty-five thousand, six hundred years old."

Benny wrinkles his nose. "Isn't that how many minutes there are in a year?"

Nobody answers, too caught up in Angel's eye-catching dance to pay a moment's attention to Benny's poor attempt at gaining the spotlight once more. One pair of blue eyes, one of green, and three of brown remain firmly focused on Angel after awhile, purely entertained and content.


	15. A Starlit Protest

"Mark is coming to my protest tonight."

A clenched fist slams against the table. "No." Benny stares at Maureen, eyes flaming. "Absolutely not. You can't – no. No way. Absolutely not."

"Why not, _Daddy_?" Maureen sneers, leaning back in her chair and crossing her ankles atop the table. "Why? Too dangerous? Past my bedtime? What?"

Flatly, Benny responds, "It's too dangerous. There could be a riot, or something. Or someone might be there who knows Mark's father, and they could report back to him. Or he could get lost. Or kidnapped. Or he might get drunk, or stoned, or something" –

Maureen slaps a hand on top of Benny's. "Calm down," she tells him. "I've got it under control, believe me. The protest is against child abuse, so I doubt his father or any of his friends would be there. He's going to be on the stage with me, so he won't get lost or kidnapped or drunk or anything. And besides, I need him. To support my topic, I mean."

Benny refrains from suggesting that Maureen cancel the protest altogether. Instead, he insists, "I want to have cops on standby."

"No." Maureen's tone is flat and stony. "Tell you what – you can shadow me and Mark. I mean, just body guarding us, or whatever. Make sure we're okay."

Benny nods slowly. "Sure," he says. "But if I see you giving this kid alcohol or anything" –

"Benny. Enough."

"Okay."

And so Mark is dressed in raggedy, thin clothing constructed out of cheap street-vendor scarves and the like – and placed upon Maureen's lap, atop a stool, onstage in the Eleventh Street lot. Maureen has applied dark makeup to the little boy's face, making him look like a classic "street kid" – powder designed to look like soot is smeared across his face, and Angel supplied a wig making him look like he hasn't had a haircut in years. Maureen was careful to leave many of Mark's bruises exposed, and to make them stand out more to an audience, applied some of Mimi's makeup to them to make them shine and catch the light more.

The lights in the room are few and far between, and very dim. There are, in fact, only two lightbulbs in the entire loft, plus twelve candles lining the back wall, set up by Maureen. Soft music is playing – it appears to be wordless and yet entirely vocal at the same time. The instruments, if any, are barely heard over the sound of the voices, all chorusing different words at once and in different harmonies and melodies – all, however, are beautiful. The music might seem better-suited in a haunted house, but it seems that the only way such music could be seen as scary would be in an already-scary, high-energy location. That is what Maureen aims for here, and she wonders, pressing Mark's body with her arms against her chest, if her reality can even scrape her expectations of this evening. Perhaps not.

"Hi, everyone," Maureen croaks into the microphone. She has never before sweated or felt nervous before a performance – at least, not to her recollection. Yet now her throat is dry and she longs for the cold Poland Springs tucked in the otherwise empty refrigerator in the loft. Chapped lips are hastily moistened by her tongue, and she resists the urge to bite a fingernail. That, at least, is not one of Maureen's nervous habits (to date). Fingernail-biting has always seemed loathsome and self-destructive. She wonders if she ought to be thinking about this right now.

Mark, on the performer's lap, clutches at Maureen's arms, trying to persuade her to wrap her arms around his waist. Catching on, Maureen obliges him. Once the shuffling is over, she speaks into the microphone once more. Now the music has ascended in volume and in its ability to induce fear, or at least nerves. "I have been having recurring nightmares," she booms. Her words zigzag off the walls. The room, for all its silence (apart, of course, from Maureen's words), might as well be empty, which is once of the many strategies Maureen knows for dealing with stage fright. But this, she tells herself, is not stage fright. This is simply her worrying about how she will be able to express her point – it is an important one, and she knows that she has but one chance to speak her mind before her opportunity is ripped out from under her feet.

"Nightmares of this child here," she adds, gesturing to Mark, "being mistreated and beaten. I wake up in a _cold_, cold sweat, screaming sometimes – and realize, only then, that my nightmares are flashbacks to events I have not witnessed. This boy was abused."

Maureen pauses for her words to sink in. Mark's big blue eyes meet her own, and she murmurs something inaudible to anyone but Mark. She makes sure her scarlet fingernails click the _off _button on the microphone before she says what she says, and the moment directly afterward, she presses the button again, hoping nobody noticed – apart, that is, from the attentive Roger, Collins and Benny, only visible in the crowd by the tops of their heads. In response to Maureen's whisper, Mark bobs his head and, into the microphone, he whispers, "Uh-huh. Was." And Mark's murmur is amplified and heard clearly throughout the room.

Palms sweating, Maureen places her slippery hands flat on the stool, with Mark sitting awkwardly between her legs. In one smooth motion, she quickly flips herself _over _Mark's entire body, leaving the child on the stool as she begins leaping around the stage. "Mark here," she pants as she slides her fingers clockwise around the volume control, "is in my petrifying nightmares as a helpless, hopeless smudge on his aggressor's windshield. As a flyswatter ricochets off of his skin again and again, Mark whimpers and cries and screams and does _all that he can _to escape the pain. But nothing works, and every blow is followed by another, this one usually harder and more painful than the previous one."

The audience now barely sees Maureen but as a blur – she is speeding around the room, miming with her flexible body a fight between two people. Self-thrown punches narrowly avoid Maureen's face, and after a particularly forceful "punch", she crumbles to the ground, back hunched over, head down – with her tiny hidden microphone (concealed as a lip ring) causing her grunts and cries to echo around the room. Mark, meanwhile, remains facing steadfastly forward, long forbidden to watch Maureen's violent display.

Makeup and sweat ooze around Maureen's clothes and face as she sobs fiercely, tossing her head around wildly. "Please – Daddy, no more," she wails in a child's voice, and Mark almost spins around to face her, recognizing the voice and the words. Benny and Roger and Collins helplessly struggle to comfort Mark with their eyes and hands, hoping not to have to remove him from the premises as it might incite a riot. Mark catches sight of Roger as he jumps up and down in the crowd, and they wave at one another. They both calm down the tiniest bit after this display, and whether or not Maureen sees it remains a mystery.

"I'll be good, I promise," Maureen pleads, and finally, her long limbs snap apart as she springs to her feet. She snatches Mark into her arms and leaps onto the unsteady stool. The pair's combined weight barely exceeds a hundred pounds, and still the stool wobbles dangerously.

"Never again!" she screams over the train-like roar of the music – many combined voices reach a piercing wail, obviously intended to imitate Maureen's. "I'll never do it again! I'll be good! Don't hurt me, please!"

And now Maureen clutches Mark to her chest and jumps off the stool. The eerie music now grows louder and louder, and Maureen places Mark on the stool before she swiftly begins zooming around the room again. Now, she is a tangle of arms and legs and torso and hair, flying around, dancing – or perhaps not moving at all – more violently and fiercely than ever before. When the music finally comes to its climax, Maureen gestures for Mark to stand up. She creeps over to the stool and hoists him to his feet so that Mark on the stool, and Maureen just behind it, are of a height.

"Seconds before I awaken," she hisses into the microphone, "I hear one last shriek of despair before we both exit my dream-world. But for some, the nightmare never ends."

The lights flicker and, after a moment's darkness, illuminate again. Voices begin to sound, and the haunting mood is broken. Maureen holds Mark and leaps off the stage, then hands the child to Roger. "Was it good?" she murmurs to her friends as they elbow their way through the crowd. "Was it believable?"

"It was" –

"Maureen!" comes a shriek. "Maureen, oh my god!" Maureen turns around to see Mimi and Angel, both of whom look completely blown away. Impressed. Fascinated. Touched. Moved. They appear to be in a trance similar to that of Roger, immediately following another high. But the difference is that Mimi and Angel look as though they had emotions on their faces before being frozen – and now they are unable to erase that display of emotion, for all its strength.

"It was terrifying," Mimi tells Maureen eagerly. "I was terrified. And I knew that was your intention."

Maureen does not hesitate. "Absolutely. It really, really was."

"Then it was fantastic," Mimi tells her firmly. "Couldn't have been better. Although" –

"Yes?"

"I wish Mark weren't exposed to that. He shouldn't have been there. But I know you needed him there in order to have the effect you were aiming for." Mimi pauses. "I wish he hadn't seen that and that he hadn't been displayed like that, but you needed to prove your point, and besides, having a real abuse victim is probably the best way to get people's attention. Especially when the victim happens to be an adorable five-year-old."

Angel nods seriously. "It was wonderful, Maureen. Scary. But spectacular."

And new voices begin telling Maureen the same thing: tourists in the city for "one night only" crowd around the young woman, as do Alphabet City residents and young teenagers (possibly abuse victims themselves) captivated by the performance. Even Joanne, who had been hidden in the crowd, approaches Maureen and shakily expresses that she is impressed.

Mark is the last to speak to Maureen, back in the loft after the door has been shut behind the five residents (plus Angel and Mimi, who seem unable to tear themselves away from the group). As coffee is brewed and Monopoly is set up, Mark shyly tugs on Maureen's pants and whispers, "Was scary."

"I know, Marky," Maureen replies, slightly taken aback that Mark even comprehended what was going on. "It was s'posed to be scary, though."

Mark nods. "I know," he tells her, sounding as though he did, in fact, know. "But" –

"But?"

"But Daddy is scarier." Mark then hesitates. "Well, sometimes. Not always. He doesn't – doesn't move like that, like he can move any way and stretch like that. You do that, though. Little scary."

As Maureen sips too-hot coffee later that night, long after blankets have been pulled up to Mark's neck and kisses have been distributed, she wonders if perhaps she had just as strong an effect on the five-year-old as she did on quiet, thoughtful Collins, and Benny, still incapable of a witty remark. She hopes her question is answered in time, and thoughtfully, as she retreats to bed later on, she wonders absently if perhaps Mark takes in every word that is said by anyone, and he simply observes, words and images forever flickering in his mind, tears and sweat and blood and laughter and rustling Monopoly money all rippling together to form a memento of life, as seen by the five-year-old who appears to have seen it all.


	16. Captain Codependent

"Angel?"

Angel shifts on the couch, nestling against Collins's forearm. "Yes, Tom?" she asks. Her eyes are full of the love found in everyone's eyes as they watch Mark.

Collins smiles down at his girlfriend. _Slowly_, his brain tells him, as he struggles to piece words together, forming them over the sexual thoughts he tries to suppress with logistics. "I was just wondering if you'd mind doing me a big favor." He hesitates, overcome once more by attraction.

Angel, fingers still closed around her boyfriend's arm, responds, "Yes?"

"Well, there's a meeting with Joanne today. For me, Roger, Maureen, Benny and Mimi. Except we need someone to stay and watch Mark."

_Am I asking too much_? Collins wonders in a moment of panic. After all, they've only been seeing each other – is it that? – for a day. It seems like more, though, and Angel appears to be thinking along the same lines as she watches Collins's eyes.

"Well, he is adorable," Angel admits. She brushes her fingers across her boyfriend's cheek. "And so are you, of course. I'd love to watch Mark – except, of course, you'd owe me…"

Angel lets her fingers trail up Collins's leg. Collins lets out an involuntary squeal, and as he hears a door creak open, he and Angel swiftly throw a blanket over each others' legs to hide the teasing taking place. Benny steps out into the living room and groans.

"You still going at it?" he groans. "Damn, you were doing that all last night, too. Man, Collins, you sure got yourself a catch. Guess you have Mimi to thank for that."

Collins rolls his eyes and holds Angel close to him. "Angel's going to watch Mark today," he says, trying to change the subject. "So that we can meet with Joanne."

Benny nods. "Great," he says, but neither Angel nor Collins is particularly fond of the sharp glance Benny shoots Angel. The eye contact sums up the emotions he's learned never to actually speak of: anger, frustration, jealousy, dislike, judgment, and cowardice. The last is particularly unspeakable, for Benny is incapable of admitting a weakness (of his own, that is, of course), and "weakness" is, after all, a broad category – which, in his opinion, happens to include cowardice.

"Don't look at her like that," Collins tells his roommate sharply, holding Angel in place with an arm wrapped around her chest.

Benny grumbles something that sounds like "I'll look at _him _however I want," but neither Collins nor Angel says a word. Once Benny is halfway finished with assembling the coffee machine, he breathes in the strong fumes and adds, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Collins, however, suspects that the damage has already been done and Benny may as well go kill himself now to spare Angel the trouble. He feels that Angel, while she certainly possesses an innocent outer shell, can be particularly vengeful when she puts her mind to it. With that thought in mind, Collins strokes his girlfriend's cheek affectionately, in the interest of raising to the top of Angel's list.

Angel, taking the hint, cuddles up on Collins's lap. "Tom," she murmurs as she tries to find a comfortable spot. Her utterance of her boyfriend's name is more automatic than it is intended, and somehow Collins understands that. He gently places a kiss on Angel's forehead, and as he breaks away, both smile.

Of course Roger chooses that very moment to emerge from his room, bouncing Mark in his arms. Mark grins. "Benny'n Collins'n Angel!" he exclaims, and jumps onto the table from his former position in Roger's grasp. From there, he leaps onto the couch and cuddles up beside Angel and Collins. Neither member of the couple objects, though Benny looks less than pleased. Only someone close enough to Benny would be able to identify his discomfort, shown in his whitening knuckles as he clutches the kitchen counter.

"Mark, what's your favorite breakfast food?" Benny asks to distract himself. Cooking is always that to him – a distraction, a way to get caught up in new rules rather than abiding by the rules of life.

The little boy appears to be unsure, so Collins surreptitiously murmurs a suggestion in Mark's ear. Trying to conceal his giggles, Mark declares, "Pancakes." Collins gives him a sly thumbs-up, Roger snickers, and Angel plants a kiss on Mark's nose.

Mark giggles. "An-gel," he sings, "you're so nice." And just as Angel unthinkingly murmured her boyfriend's name mere minutes prior, Mark now instinctively adds, "Love you." He curls up tighter to the duo, tiny hands clutching at the blanket covering Angel's pantslessness (though had Mark been aware of the blanket's purpose, he doubtless would not have held it in such a way).

Benny, meanwhile, pours pancake mix into the pan on the wood-burning stove, absently considering the day's itinerary. "When're we meeting Joanne?" he yells across the room, not caring who answers.

Roger imitates Benny's distraction by yelling (equally loudly) back, "Ten!"

Startled, Benny drops his spatula and it topples to the ground. Maureen – not so much a light sleeper, nor a heavy sleeper, but rather an enviable sleeper that wakes up when she truly desires to – then enters the main room of the loft, her pink pajamas (decorated with cows) catching the attention of all the loft's other occupants. "Wait – where's…" Maureen begins, and then surveys the room, counting up the people inside. "Six, so, where's Mimi?"

Roger turns the color of Maureen's pajamas. "I'd rather not talk about it," he says mysteriously over the top of his upside-down magazine. With a snort, Maureen flips the glossy publication over and tilts her head.

"Where are all the celebrities?" she asks in confusion. "This is just… stupid. Whose is this?"

"Maureen, focus!" Benny, Collins and Roger yell in unison. It is a regular routine, telling Maureen to shut up. Mark and Angel erupt into laughter, two sets of high-pitched giggles ringing through the room. After settling down, Angel and Mark just smile at one another as the others watch jealously. Everyone wants a smile from Mark (and secretly, everyone wants a smile from Angel as well).

Three things happen at once.

One: Benny, in the process of flipping a pancake, slips on the floor and falls… causing the pancake to soar across the room and head towards the window that leads to the fire escape.

Just then, Collins reaches across the room to kick the window open, and even as the pancake heads for that same direction, he deftly unlatches the window and pulls it up – causing the pancake to fly _out _the window.

The third thing that happens is that at that very moment, Mimi Marquez steps outside, on her way to her meeting with Joanne – and a pancake flies from out of seemingly _nowhere _– and lands on her head.

"ROGER, WAS THAT YOU?" she yells, and moments later, she is halfway up the six flights of fire escape stairs. When she reaches the window of the loft, Mimi delicately climbs inside. Everybody stares at Mimi as she tugs at the waistband of Roger's boxers and drops the pancake inside.

Roger, eyes wide, turns to face Mimi as Mark hurriedly attempts to fish the pancake out of his caretaker's boxers. "Wasn't me," the blonde informs her honestly. "It was Benny. And Collins."

Mark, Maureen and Angel nod in all seriousness. "True," Angel tells her best friend, smiling. "I'm sure Benny wouldn't mind the pancake in his pants," she adds. "Although I'd have to object to anything at all going in Tommy here's pants."

Benny looks ill. Mimi, Collins and Maureen, however, erupt into giggles. "Fine," Mimi declares, and she snatches another pancake out of the pan, slapping it against Benny's back. As Benny howls in distress, the bohemians' laughter is audible all the way in Joanne's office – unknown to them. To them, they are simply lost in their own world, and it matters not to them if anybody can hear them.

"We really have to go," Benny announces. "That is, if anybody wants to be there on time."

Mimi nods. "You _hit me with your pancake _right when I was on my way to her office. Joanne's, I mean."

Mark toddles across the room and hugs Roger's legs. "You leaving now?" he asks, eyes wide. His cherubic face watches Roger's struggle to break the news easily.

"Yeah, little man, I am," he says. "But I'll be back soon, 'kay?"

Mark nods silently. "Kay."

With that, Roger and Mark exchange a quick hug and kiss before Roger departs. The cycle is then repeated with Mimi, who (Mark notes) is really an awful hugger. Maureen is next, and then Benny, and finally Collins, who gives Mark the best hug he has ever received in his life.

Everyone is gone.

Except, that is, for Mark and Angel.

"Hey, you wanna do something fun?" Angel asks Mark, excitement lacing through her words.

Mark's head bobs up and down. "Sure!"

Angel smiles. "How 'bout I give you a makeover?"

"Makeover?" Mark repeats in confusion.

Angel smiles. "Baby, you got a lot to learn."


	17. Angie Says He Looks Good

The door to the loft slides open. Roger, Maureen, Benny, Mimi and Collins enter, animatedly talking amongst themselves. When they take in the sight of the loft – Angel is sitting calmly on the couch with Mark nowhere in sight – they quiet down abruptly. Roger, puzzled, demands, "Where's Mark?"

Angel does her best to hide a smile. "Oh, he's here," she assures everyone. "Just wait a moment." With that, Angel swings over the couch and makes her way into Roger's room. She emerges shortly afterward with her hands clasped behind her back, a solemn face on, and professional-looking sunglasses.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Angel says, her voice almost sing-song, "our young charge on this summer day – whose loveliness is only matched by kindness, I must say – a new member of the Alphabet City, avant garde – the new and improved… Mark!"

With that, Angel delicately saunters over to the couch as Roger's door opens and a certain five-year-old exits, hips swaying as he walks. Roger and Collins collapse against the wall; Maureen shrieks; Mimi jumps; Benny claps a hand to his mouth.

"Oh my god!" Maureen, Mimi, Roger, Collins and Benny scream.

Mark is clad in a sapphire-colored shirt with an X-shaped cut, so that each of the four front corners – upper right, upper left, lower right, lower left – fold over one another, held up in the back by a long strip of cloth. Said shirt is partially covered by an unbuttoned translucent jacket, and underneath both rests a pair of vinyl pants. To complete the outrageous outfit, Mark is wearing dark eyeliner, and his hair is spiked.

"What. Did. You. DO!?" Roger demands, resisting the urge to grab Angel by the collar.

Mark watches wordlessly. Considering the fact that he does not begin to sniffle and ask about pun'shmit, it seems an improvement. Instead, he looks at Roger calmly. His heavy-lined eyes flicker open and shut as he makes eye contact with the once-musician, looking old and wise beyond his five years, either because of the absurd makeup, or because Mark is, simply, so very old for his age.

"It's just a makeover," Angel is saying. "Calm down."

Angel, for her part, is reminded of saying that very phrase during her high school days, after her initial "feminizing" makeover. To her parents and sister, those exact words had been said, that it was only a makeover. And yet nothing is "only a makeover", in the big world, she's learned. But best not to overdramatize the moment.

"This is kinda cute," Mimi declares, settling down in a chair with Mark on her lap. "Marky, love, you're adorable."

Maureen nods. She approaches the pair of them and kneels beside the chair, stroking Mark's hair delicately. "You look _fabulous_, baby." Turning to Angel, she adds, "Are you sure this isn't going to make him turn out to be gay?"

Angel bursts out laughing, along with Mimi and Collins. "I wouldn't make him gay, even though I probably could," she assures Maureen. "So could Tommy-love."

The conversation continues with two sides: The one that appears to be losing is Maureen and Roger's opinion, which thinks that perhaps Angel should be more careful with preventing Mark from becoming gay before he's even six years old. On the other hand, there is Collins, Mimi, and Angel's standpoint, under which Mark cannot possibly turn gay from anyone's influence, not even Angel's.

Mark has no idea what is being discussed, so he is slightly baffled when Maureen asks of him, "Mark, kiddo, do you like girls?"

"Shut up, Maureen!" Roger and Benny yell. Benny adds, in an attempt to discontinue the conversation, "Besides, don't you remember? His father said he's not allowed to talk to girls."

Mark hops off of Mimi's lap and leaps over to Angel, clutching her leg. "Angie says I look _good_," he insists, putting a heavy accent on the final word that forces the room's other occupants into giggles. Mimi and Angel laugh the longest, and when all recover, there is a somewhat tense silence.

"Nop-ly?" suggests Mark.

Roger laughs somewhat hollowly. "Nah, Mark, no Nop-ly," he says almost regretfully. "How 'bout we get you cleaned up?" He gestures to Mark's absurd makeup and outfit. "It looks nice," he lies through his teeth, "but I don't think you wanna stay in it for too long. So what if you got all cleaned up?"

Mark cocks his head, considering. "Bath?" he wonders. "Bath's fun."

It is bizarre and contradictory, how much Mark likes baths. It must be said that the average five-year-old makes no secret about his or her utter loathing for any sort of hygiene. Mark, however, has obviously been denied life's "simple pleasures" for so long that a bath seems like complete heaven to him.

Collins, recalling Mark's first day at the loft and the bath he had taken then, proposes, "Maybe it is time for another bath. You want one, Marky-boy?" At Mark's nod, Collins hoists the child over his shoulder and surveys the room's other occupants. "Hmm. Who do you think should help me out with the bath, Mark?"

Mark squints around the room. "Angie," he says decisively, pointing at Angel. "Please. Angie's really really really nice."

Roger and Benny scowl, the former out of jealousy and the latter out of simple dislike for Angel. Mimi hides a smile; Angel makes her obvious delight no secret at all. Delicately Angel gets to her feet – ignoring Benny's shameless ogling of her rear end, which admittedly _does _look rather feminine (though not as feminine as Mimi's) – and joins Collins and Mark. "Anyone else?" Collins asks.

"Ummm…"

Mark deliberates. While his thought processes are not nearly as smooth and organized as all that, he weighs the possibilities of choosing each of the other bohemians. Benny is in a bad mood, Roger has been receiving "favorite guardian" treatment for too long, Mimi appears uninterested, and Maureen…

Maureen attempts to subtly jump up and down, waving her hands passionately in the air. Mark catches sight of her and, puzzled, tilts his head to the side. When Maureen embarrassedly returns to her seat, Mark discovers that his head is rather comfortable resting on Collins's shoulder, and so he keeps it there. It is the coziest Mark has felt in almost the entire day, which is strange because in the loft he is more comfortable than he ever has been in his life, and he is sure that the couches here barely exceed those that Daddy never allowed Mark to sit on in anyone's presence (including Mark's own).

Though Mark does not fall asleep as his bath is prepared and he is gently lowered into it, he is so absorbed in his thoughts that the feel of the warm water barely feels like anything to him. As dirt and all sorts of other things are washed off of Mark's body and out of his hair, he notices nothing apart from the fact that he is very obviously in love with this semi-bohemia. He has never felt love before, but he is sure that it must feel this way, with the endless yearning for an unnamed craving to be satisfied. He has never seen love, or at least, not that he knows of. Are Collins and Angel love? Just as Mark begins to wonder if he ought to ask them, his thoughts are interrupted.

"Collins?" Angel calls quietly from across the room as she prepares Mark's towel, unfolding it and holding it out between herself and the bath. It almost appears to be a shield, protecting young Mark from the many complex tales and secrets of Angel Dumott Schunard. Unknown to this, Angel continues, "Mark?"

"Yeah?" Collins responds. He prods Mark gently, trying to awaken the child from an almost-slumber.

Mark looks up in curiosity. He sets his eyes on what it is that Angel is looking at, and before Angel can say a word, Mark answers for her. Declares the five-year-old, "It's beg'ning to snow."


	18. So Lawyers ARE Scum

"So," Joanne concludes, setting her water bottle down atop a stack of papers, "I feel that this case should go to court, not only for my personal financial gain" – here she laughs briefly – "but also because I feel that there is no reason for Mark's tormentor to continue living as though none of this trauma had happened. Also, it is imperative that Mark's sister – Cindy, I believe – is removed from that home as soon as possible, and that both children's places are guaranteed and cemented, preferably in a healthy foster home."

Roger slams his fist down on the lawyer's desk, aghast. "_What_?"

"Excuse me?" Joanne asks, baffled.

Roger shakes his head. "Did you say _foster home_? You mean, as in something other than this house? For Mark?"

Joanne purses her lips. "Well, of course," she replies. "You didn't honestly expect that starving-class artists would be granted the responsibility of parenting? There is more to being a child's guardian than just giving out hugs, you know, Roger."

Now even Benny seems aggravated. "Miss Jefferson," he begins, "I believe that it is a lawyer's duty to understand what a client wants the outcome of a case to be, and _then _determine ways to reach this goal through trial, or not."

Shaking her head, Joanne searches for something to say. At last, she decides upon, "I refuse to participate in a corrupt case that aims to place a child in an unhealthy, unstable home." Her words are echoed by Maureen's squawks of indignance.

"You honestly mean to say that you won't help?" Maureen asks. She is not pouting; she is far too furious to put. Instead, her eyes are flaming, her knuckles snow-white. She has gone long past flirting; this is too important for flirting. The outcome weighs in the balance, and Maureen would prefer a touch on Joanne's thigh or a kiss on her neck not be what sways it.

Joanne shakes her head. She is flat and firm. "No." Then, more softly, her lips half-form around the word _Sorry_, before she thinks better of it and shakes her head. "No," she whispers to herself, and closes her mouth.

Collins watches that tidbit of expression displayed by Joanne, and feels a twang of pity for her. New to the world of Maureen and bohemia and cases that are so much more about feelings and emotion than about right and wrong, Joanne has no idea what to do. Sure, she knows about facts, about legalities and delicate loopholes, but law school never taught her about how to use anything other than her "right brain" – she was never taught how to memorize and understand the complications of being a person.

"Well, if you want Mark to get kidnapped by his father" – Maureen begins, infuriated.

"No, Maureen, that's _not _what I want!" Joanne hisses. Her professional aura's golden halo now has a tiny slit in it, and that's all it needs – there's one broken link in her chain. With that, she runs with her anger: "I want to do what I think is right, all right? I don't want to fight for a five-year-old to live with people who don't have air conditioning or electricity or anything!"

Roger, deep in thought, calmly wonders, "Is it better for Mark to live with us, when we _sometimes _don't have electricity, or his father, who beats him up?"

Joanne seems prepared for that one as well, unfortunately. "It's better for him to find a stable, normal family in foster care," she replies.

Now Roger takes on Maureen's fury. "Normal? Fine, maybe we're unconventional, this family we have here, but it's still a family!" he yells. He doesn't care that he sounds like a family sitcom character; he runs with it. "And at least with us, Mark'll learn values – how to be tolerant and accepting, rather than being sheltered and kept within the wards of some yuppie golden-gate upper-class community!"

Joanne shakes her head. "Better to be secure in a lifestyle than to be at risk."

"At risk of _what_?"

Now Joanne is fuming. "You've got an HIV-positive friend," she snarls. "You want Mark to be at risk for that? He gets a paper cut, your buddy over there gets a paper cut – whoops, blood transfusion, the kid's got AIDS! Or maybe he's at some protest and gets hurt in a riot. Maybe he'll get kidnapped, or mugged – it's _Alphabet City_, for crying out loud. And besides, do you want to expose a child to – to lesbians, and to sex, and to" –

Four pairs of chilling eyes meet Joanne's. Roger is the one who speaks. "We're not going to get him AIDS, Joanne, because we're careful. He's at less risk for AIDS here than he is for a paper cut in some yuppie's house," he adds. "And do you know how safe he was at that riot? _Jeez_. Maybe I'm young – maybe we're all young – but we're not stupid. I was a kid not too long ago, you know. I know how to handle kids. And as to your last remark – what's wrong with showing him that two women can love each other?"

"BECAUSE," Joanne nearly screams, "IT ISN'T RIGHT."

Maureen crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah?" she demands. "Who says?"

"It's just – everyone – God – everyone _knows_ that, for God's sake!" Joanne snaps. She takes a few deep breaths, and then softly says, "I think you should leave. It's clear that you should find a different lawyer."

The four bohemians file out of the room, followed by Joanne. As Benny pays the final bill, Maureen and Roger and Collins watch the door as if trying to conjure some sort of presence. Once the four of them step inside the elevator, Maureen suggests softly, "Want to go drinking? There's a new club on Tenth and A."

A murmur of assent echoes her words, and the four step out of the elevator, down the street, down the steps to the subway, and onto a train. A homeless man is draped across a seat, paper bag dangling from his arm, which hangs over the bench. Maureen drops a nickel into said bag, struck by pity (and possibly attraction for the man, who admittedly is quite young and quite good-looking).

Benny rolls his eyes as Maureen returns to the bench on which Roger, Collins, Benny and now Maureen sits. She seems out of place among the three other men, but she truly isn't. All four bohemians are deep in thought, reviewing the day and the alcohol they are sure to order, as well as silently wondering what horrors Mark, Mimi and Angel are getting up to. Benny alone worries about finding another lawyer, though this is the last concern on Maureen's list due to her absolute certainty that she will be able to find _someone _who likes her chest enough to give her a fair discount.

The subway comes to a halt at the stop at which Maureen, Benny, Collins and Roger would need to leave. However, the four have a silent agreement to simply remain on the subway, watching the homeless and the yuppies and the tourists mingle. It reminds them of their own little world: a child, an exhibitionist, a transvestite, a philosopher, an unlikely guardian for the child, a drama queen, and an aspiring businessman are all able to live together in peace, some in the same beds.

And so the train continues, until it reaches its final local stop at which Roger, Maureen, Benny and Collins could even _dream _of exiting: Central Park. And so the four exit here, trudging up the mud-stained steps to reach the fresh, warm, admittedly somewhat polluted air that leads to the park. "We should bring Mark here sometime," Maureen pants as she reaches the top of the steps.

"I might find a dealer here," Roger mutters to himself, glancing around the park.

Collins looks around. "Angel would look beautiful on this backdrop," he muses, smiling a bit at the thought of his wonderful, perfect Angel.

Benny is the last to comment, and his words are barely audible. He simply murmurs, "Isn't it strange that the city's parks are supposed to be so beautiful in comparison to the smoky buildings, but I'd take skyscrapers over trees and benches any day?"

When the four gather on a bench and begin a light conversation, each has a new item weighing down his or her pocket: Maureen has a nickel, dropped by a passing homeless man; Roger has a brand-new stash, tucked away in his shirt pocket; Collins has a tiny lilac-colored flower hidden away to give to Angel later. Benny, in contrast, holds a whole host of snarky remarks, threatening to burst free from his chest as he attempts to tolerate the presence of his friends.

He wonders if he ought to feel like this.

Instead of blaming himself and feeling guilty, however, Benny switches the blame immediately over to Joanne. _That bitch_, he tells himself aimlessly, a simple subject lacking a predicate. _That bitch_.


	19. Half The Fun Is Getting There

Little Mark perks up when he hears the door creak open. In truth, even in his five-year-old mind he is bored with Angel and Mimi's discussion about how "hot" certain guys are, and while Mark doesn't understand all of it, he is aware that it does not concern him. So it is a relief to him when the door opens and Maureen, Roger, Collins and Benny enter.

"Hey, Marky," Roger greets Mark, who scampers across the room and leaps into Roger's arms. "Did you have a good day with Meems and Angie?"

"Umm…" Mark trails off, considering. "I dunno. Missed you lots."

Maureen stifles a giggle at the evidence of Mimi and Angel's inability to entertain a five-year-old boy. Collins, on the other hand, is more amused by the fact that Angel and Mimi are so feminine, and Mark so masculine, even at five, that they clash when kept together for a long period of time – while, in contrast, Collins and Angel's differing gender roles compliment their relationship.

Benny has other things on his mind. "Hey, Mark," he says casually, "remember Joanne?"

Mark bobs his head up and down. He does indeed remember Joanne. He doesn't like her, but he remembers her, yes.

"W_ell_," Benny continues, "I don't think you're gonna see her anymore." Mark does not understand why Benny sounds so serious, as though this news is simply breaking his and Mark's hearts. But little Mark only shrugs and brushes off the news, indifferent.

"'Kay," is all Mark says, and with that, he requests of Roger, "C'n we do somethin' fun?"

Roger considers. "Sure, Marky, what do you want to do?"

Mark has no idea, and says as much. Collins, however, appears to have a thought, and so he turns to Benny. "Could you borrow Alison's car for the day?" he asks. "The Range Rover?" At Benny's inquisitive expression, Collins responds by whispering something in his friend's ear, and Benny nods eagerly.

"_Great_ idea," he tells Collins, and with that, he hurries out of the loft, presumably to borrow his girlfriend's car. Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Mark, Roger, and Collins watch him depart.

"Where are we gonna go?" Roger asks his friend in a mutter, and Collins answers him in a whisper. Roger's eyes widen, and he hastens to pass on the message to Angel, who reports it to Mimi, who alerts Maureen, and so on. It seems the only person left in the dark as to where they will be going is Mark. All Mark is told is "We're going on a drive, Marky, and we're gonna have lots of fun."

Sure enough, honking is audible a quarter hour after Benny's departure. Roger peers out the window and spots Benny in the driver's seat of a familiar Range Rover. He beckons his friends to join him in the car, and so they do: Roger holds Mark while zooming down the banister, and the others descend the fire escape stairs. Unsurprisingly, Mark and Roger make it to the car first, and take their seats in the middle row of seats. They are joined shortly afterward by Maureen, who takes the seat beside Benny's, and then the others. Angel and Collins nestle up against one another in the far back, and Mimi sits beside them.

Mark is a bit nervous, in a car for the first time in his life, but his fears are assuaged by Roger, who promises that car rides cause no one any harm (unless, of course, Maureen is driving – which she isn't) and it'll probably even be fun. With that in mind, Mark smiles and begins fidgeting to the point where Angel has no choice but to fasten the child's seat belt, against Mark's wishes (and secretly Angel's own, because seat belts are just uncomfortable and they _ruffle clothes_, for God's sake – or not God, _Collins _would be preferable, or even just a random _angel_).

"Okay," says Collins firmly, "now we're off… to the Hamptons!"

And with that, Benny shifts the car into drive and begins the bohemians' adventure to the beach of the Hamptons.

The car ride, which according to Alison's computer should take four hours and thirteen minutes, would be dull and uninteresting if it were not for the fact that, well, the car's occupants are _bohemian_. That fact alone makes it clear that the journey will be exciting and energetic, starting from the moment (six and a half minutes into the drive) when Maureen opens her mouth to ask a very predictable question. Benny, shrewd and perceptive, slams his hand over Maureen's mouth before she utters a single syllable.

"No, we're not there yet," he says firmly, and continues driving. Maureen pouts.

"You know me too well," she complains, and swings her legs up so her feet rest upon the dashboard comfortably. "Ooh, let's play a car game!"

"Can we not?" pleads Benny, but he is drowned out by the earsplitting roar of agreement coming from the car's other bohemians – Mark included. "All right, well," Benny mumbles, resigned to his fate, "since I'm the driver, I get to pick the game."

Maureen disagrees. "Let's play the word-song game!" she shrieks. "Where I say a word, and everyone has to come up with a song that has that word in it. _And no, Roger, you can't cheat_!" she adds.

"Noooooo!" whines Benny. "I _hate _that game. And you and Roger are always gonna cheat, no matter what you say. Let's play something else." Loathe as he is to admit it, there is one game in particular that is the least abhorrent – in his opinion, of course – of all of Maureen's favorite games. "Apple Bear?" he offers, dangling the suggestion in the air as he might hold a soiled diaper.

Apple Bear is Maureen's favorite game mostly because of the title, which is cutesy and very typically Maureen. The rules of the game say that a theme must first be established. For example, one of the bohemians' favorite themes is _fruit_, although they rarely stick to the literal definition of fruit. Assuming they might, however, the first player – for example, Maureen – would state something that would fall into the category of _fruit_ that began with the letter A, such as apple. The next player, here Roger, would restate _apple_, and then proceed to name a fruit beginning with B. For example, _banana_. Play would then proceed from there on, with each player repeating all the previous fruits mentioned until at last, as Roger is known to say when describing this game to outsiders, "some unlucky bastard gets stuck with X, and that's when the game kind of dies."

"Yeah!" Roger yells. He is echoed by Collins, who hurriedly explains the game to Angel, who nods in approval. To Mark, Roger explains the rules of the game – in simple terms, using fruits as an example. When Roger first says "fruit", Collins and Angel exchange friendly murmurs with one another, their words supposedly related somehow to the alternate meaning of the word _fruit_.

Upon Mark's understanding of the game, the car hums with thought as every bohemian seated on the "Gray family gray" leather seats considers possible themes. Collins suggests using his preferred meaning of fruits, though Roger hurriedly vetoes that idea; Mimi proposes that they use art as a topic, but Maureen deems that controversial, with a nasty glance toward Benny. All eyes focus on Mark as he timidly suggests, "Um – Angie taught me a word today, 'n she said that that's what we, what we are, 'n it's a fun word…"

Mark swivels around to face Angel, looking helpless. After a few more moments of his stammering, Angel understands what Mark is babbling about, and with a smile, she proclaims, "Bohemia."

"Oh, perfect," Maureen coos, and the rest of the car seems to agree, because nobody objects to Maureen's start of the game (predictably, her beginning word is "art," which is followed immediately afterward by Benny's "bathtub"). When Benny says this, he peers at Roger through the mirror, worried that perhaps he struck a nerve with his rather uncalled-for reference to April. Mimi and Angel and Mark look on in confusion as Benny and Roger glare at each other through the mirror. Roger at last breaks the silence by declaring "creation," and that is it; it is as if nothing was said.

Mark stutters, trying to find an acceptable word, and is guided by Roger. Together, the two blondes decide upon "dance," and Roger smiles sweetly at Mimi, who follows up on said word by suggesting "energy." Angel then has no choice but to politely censor Collins's chosen word by kissing him; she would prefer not to expose Mark to the vulgarity that Collins was obviously about to say, and it is clear that Angel in part simply enjoys kissing her boyfriend. Together, she and Collins decide on "family." Together they work together on Angel's contribution, which ends up as "going against the grain," a real mouthful for Mark in particular.

H is "hope," I "insanity," and J is a tribute to the group's common favorite writer: "Jonathan Larson." K is given to Mark's "khaki blazer," another of Roger's suggestions, and L (initially a toss-up between "love" and "loss") turns into "life." The words continue to flow, with "Maureen" being the obvious choice for M despite Collins and Roger's protests that it ought to be Mark instead. N is lovingly donated to "Neruda," a much-loved bohemian poet.

When O rolls around, it is given immediately to "opposition;" P goes to "promises," Q to "queens" (with applause donated to Angel, the lucky selector of that particular word), and R to "randomness." S is somewhat more difficult: "sex" is vetoed because of its sheer predictability more so than Mark's presence, and so "S&M" is accepted in its place, which is really no better, to be honest. For T, "taboo" is the lucky chosen word. U is "Uta," an actress of long ago, and V is "Vaclav Havel," a playwright who, according to Roger, owns a motor scooter and has therefore long secured a place in bohemian society.

W is "wine," of course, because it is so popular in this group, and, as Roger predicted, X presents a problem. However, by Angel's suggestion, it is skipped entirely, and the group proceeds to Y, which turns out to be "yuppies." The final letter, Z, is somewhat warped as Roger decides upon "ZTA – because we couldn't do AZT for A."

When it starts to rain, Maureen cranks her window open a bit and tosses her hair into the air, letting the rain weigh her auburn curls down against the window. The others, instead of suspecting that she is crazy, do the same; Angel, Mimi, and Collins (seated in the back and thus unable to open their windows entirely) join the others in the middle and front seats to participate in the hair-soaking affair, stared at by fellow drivers that honk at Benny to signal their disapproval.

"Yuppie scum," Maureen hisses when at last she closes her window, shaking her head to drench her seat and drain her hair a bit. "Can't they just chill out?" She turns to Benny and whines, "Can't you control them? They're part of your _tribe_, Ben-o. Your _pack_. Your little cult of, of, of yuppies."

Mark giggles, having been educated by Roger as to the meaning of the word "yuppie", even though he does not entirely understand it. "Ben's not a yuppie," he protests, and toddles forward to settle himself on Maureen's lap. Like clockwork, Mimi journeys to the middle of the car and sits beside Roger in the seat formerly occupied by Mark. Bored, Mimi pokes the back of Benny's head until he whips his hand out and waves it through the air behind him, aiming for Mimi's face but missing pathetically.

The rain stops just an hour away from the Hamptons, and Angel and Collins exchange a sweet, romantic kiss as the sky's teardrops make their last few pitter-pats against the car. Maureen, to celebrate, breaks into song, accompanied by Roger and Mark. Benny simply takes a long drag on his invisible, imaginary cigarette – he doesn't even smoke – and exhales into the car.

When the car comes to a stop behind a meter, Mimi straddles the pole leading up to the meter in all her pole-dancing glory, watching in admiration as Collins displays his favorite anarchic trick: fold a piece of paper around a nickel, thrust the nickel (paper and all) into the meter's coin slot, and – ta-da! – meter broken. Upon the satisfactory destruction of the meter, the large, bohemia-splattered group makes its way to the sandy shore.


	20. Treading Dangerous Waters

As it turns out, neither Maureen nor Mimi will take another step closer to the shore unless and until someone purchases each of them a bikini. Angel hesitates, having never remotely been in such a situation before, and wonders exactly what the drag version of swimwear might be. She glances at Collins, who vaguely indicates a boardwalk store advertising wet suits.

Mark, however, is the one who most requires a bathing suit. He is handed to Benny, who along with Roger accompanies the five-year-old to a store selling all sorts of children's swimwear, including little boys' swimming trunks – on sale for about the price of a week's food. Mark, however, stumbles across a pair that is so adorable in all its rocket ship-decorated glory that he seems unable to stop staring at it. Although Mark says not a word about his clear affection for the item, Roger catches on and nudges Benny, showing him what Mark is staring at. Grumbling, Benny takes the proffered swimming trunks to the cash register and purchases them, reminding Roger that "the next time we run out of food…"

It comes as a surprise to Benny, Roger, and Mark upon their return to their group to find that Mimi and Maureen are already outfitted in bikinis, likely purchased by Collins, who appears to be up for repeating his "Parthenon experience". One can tell that this is obviously his plan from the way his thumbs are tucked beneath the waistband of his pants, his zipper and button already undone in preparation. Mimi is giggling furiously, Maureen shaking with laughter, and Angel –

Angel emerges from a store, a bundle of clothes pressed to her front, hiding whatever she is wearing. Benny takes the dirty clothes from her to put in a plastic bag of non-swimwear, but the moment he does, there is an audible gasp.

An orange skirt and matching kerchief-style top – the kind that ties in back and slides over one's arms rather than being supported by the cleavage that Angel sadly lacks – completes what appears to be a drag-style swimsuit. Of course, drag-style swimsuits are entirely different, but then again, Angel was always the most original bohemian. On the way back to Alison's car, later, she will find a tablecloth strewn over an abandoned picnic table, and yet another artistic vision will come to her, causing her to snatch the tablecloth _off _said table, fold it up and bring it home, only to make a lovely dress out of it later.

Now, in the present, the seven bohemians make their way to the gates leading up to the actual beach. A gangly teenager stationed at what may be an admissions booth starts to say something, but Maureen distracts him by flipping up the upper half of her bikini, and all is forgotten. She dances through the gate with the rest of her friends, dangling the drawstring of her bikini's thong in the boy's face temptingly. "Isn't he a little young for you?" Roger grumbles.

"Yes, of course he is!" Maureen exclaims, as though aghast by Roger's suggestion that she might be interested in him. "So?"

Roger just shakes his head and shrugs, along with the other bohemians. Benny then abruptly drops the plastic bag of clothes onto an empty space in the sand, drawing everyone's attention to the ground as a puff of sand appears to explode in their faces. Mark, squishing his toes in the sand, appears to be very curious about this new setting, and he glances up at Mimi, the closest bohemian to him. Innocent enough not to avert his eyes from her revealing bikini, Mark wonders softly, "Can I touch, touch this?" He points at the sand.

"Yeah, of course, Mark," Mimi agrees, and kneels down beside him. "Hey, you wanna bury Roger?" She shoots a glaring Roger an apologetic look, and then adds, "Or Maureen, maybe? See, we'd get her to lie down here in the sand – that's what this is called, it's sand – and we'd just cover her in sand. With a thousandy-billion little bits of sand."

Mark nods. "Yeah!"

So Maureen delicately gets down onto the ground and gets into a spread-eagled position, legs and arms mimicking a compass rose. Mimi and Mark begin scooping up sand and dumping it onto the young artist, who is already beginning to wonder how long her shower is going to last tonight if she plans on going out anytime in the next week. She shrugs it off, metaphorically of course, as any physical shrugging would only decrease the progress being made in Maureen's "burial".

After about seven minutes of the bohemian's slightly-too-eager fun with sand being poured all over Maureen's body, Roger's attention span snaps. Within a matter of _seconds _after Roger takes his first glance at the ocean, all of the bohemians save for Maureen are already halfway to the water, Mark dangling from Mimi's grasp as they leave Maureen to be the "rotten egg". But she gets there as well, brushing sand off her pale skin, and is the second one in the water (only beaten by Roger, who is a little too excited).

Mark hesitates. He has never been taught to swim. Nor have Mimi and Angel, for that matter, but they don't appear to be bothered by it. Swinging Mark into Benny's arms, Mimi leaps into the ocean, and she is followed by Angel and Collins mere seconds afterward. This leaves Benny and Mark hovering just beside the ocean's gentle ripples, and as Benny lifts his foot up an inch to take a step forward, Mark gasps and clings tightly to his caretaker's neck, afraid of even touching the water.

Roger, of course, spots Mark's panic, and takes the boy into his own hands (literally). The water is not nearly deep enough for Mark to get wet while being held to chest-level, and that is how Roger holds him, like an infant. With his hair and toes dangling on opposite ends of Roger's arms, Mark has been more comfortable in his life, but he cherishes the warmth and dryness of Roger's grasp and does not complain. Then again, Mark _never _complains.

"Oooh!" Mimi squeals. "Let's play Couples Chicken!"

Roger does not think this is a very good idea, but everyone else seems to. The only problem is that Collins and Angel are the only established couples, so impromptu partnerships are devised: Maureen and Mimi hop onto Roger and Benny's shoulders respectively, and Mark is left staring up at his friends and guardians until they realize that the little boy is present and unaccounted for. The game, however, is a smidgen too dangerous for Mark to play, and so the idea is trashed entirely, much to the dismay of the game's three _upper _participants: Maureen, Mimi, and Angel.

And so it is up to the bohemians to select a new game. Mark is scooped back into the arms of a guardian, who this time is an adoring Angel. Roger, slightly worried that Mark might fall into the water, leaves the group for a quick moment to approach a nearby family – a father and daughter, hovering uncomfortably in the water, with an abandoned foam noodle floating nearby. "Can I borrow this?" Roger asks, jerking his elbow towards the floating device and then back to Mark. "It's for my, uh, my brother over there."

Without looking up, the man gives his consent, and Roger mutters his thanks and returns to the group, noodle in hand. He hands it to Mark, who wraps one arm around Angel's neck and reaches the other hand out to accept the toy. Angel uses both hands to support Mark's body as he tenderly peels his other arm off of his caretaker's neck and holds the noodle with that hand as well. Slowly Angel releases Mark, and he drifts in the water towards Roger, kicking his tiny feet to move closer and closer until he is in Roger's arms.

"Aww!" Maureen and Mimi coo in unison, and Angel lets herself echo the sentiment as well. Roger and Collins try in vain to mask their obvious adoration for the five-year-old, and Benny just barely manages to keep up a stony expression and not squeal with affection. Mark smiles softly and paddles his way over to Maureen next, then Mimi, and then is scooped into the warm arms of Tom Collins as the anarchist proclaims, "There has never been anyone, anything, or any animal in the universe as cute as Mark."

"True," Roger agrees immediately. The others admit this as well, the women easily and Benny begrudgingly but sincerely all the same. "C'mere, Marky." He takes Mark out of his friend's arms and rocks him back and forth in his own arms. Mark's dangling feet ripple over the surface of the water, and he giggles delightedly. Roger, catching on, leans to the side and submerges Mark's feet – right up to his knees – in the water. Mark beams.

"T'feels good," Mark explains to Roger solemnly. And so Roger, holding Mark maybe even tighter than he thinks he is, takes Mark and wraps him securely in the noodle again. He then carefully allows the little boy to drift into the water on his own, clutching the noodle as the water hides him up to his chest. Collins, a bit worried about the child's safety in water of such proportional depth to Mark's own height, steers the bohemians to a shallower portion of the water.

"Hey!" a voice bellows, and a man comes charging towards the bohemians. Mark squeaks and clings to Collins's shoulder, terrified, and Mimi's eyes widen.

The man from whom Roger borrowed the noodle, the man who is now splashing through the water towards them – that man is Mark's own father.


	21. A Grand Exit

Mimi is, obviously, the first to recognize the glaring face of Jacob Cohen, and so she very unsubtly steps in front of Mark and Collins, hiding them from view. Of course, Mimi is far too skinny for this to do anything, and Collins – unnerved by Mark's inexplicable sudden terrified sobs and clawing of the anarchist's shoulder – doesn't understand why any of this is happening. He steps out from behind Mimi, defeating the entire purpose, and only then does he see the resemblance between Mark and the newcomer.

Roger sees the family semblance between the two as well, having memorized Mark's face like a catchy song that cannot leave his mind, however hard he tries. He meets the cold blue eyes of Mark's father with his own eyes equally chilling. "Can I help you?" he asks curtly, in a tone that he heard his father use as a child that always struck him as being particularly daunting. As an adult speaking it in a moment of true terror, however, Roger is not intimidated at all, and only hopes that his tone forges a pretense of certainty that is evident to Jacob, if none else. However, he doubts that this is the case, as Mark's father continues to glare, fists clenched at his sides.

"That's my son," the only partially-literate man declares, and holds his arms out towards Mark. "That's my kid, right there. That's Mike."

Maureen makes a squawking outburst at this man's inability to remember the name of his own son, and crosses her arms over her chest. Loathing and a desire for retribution have always been two emotions that Maureen has found to be impossible to resist, and this is no exception; she already begins to formulate secret plots of Jacob Cohen's murder, finding her heart to truly be _in _some of them.

"His name is – " Maureen begins, but Roger cuts her off by beginning to say something else.

Maintaining perfect tranquility, Roger explains, "I'm sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. This boy is my brother, Jonathan." He throws out a name at random, though if questioned Roger would swear that the name he gave was that of a close friend of his. Whether or not this is the case is debatable and insignificant. What remains to be the matter at hand here is that Mark, terrified, is making it fairly obvious that he has reason to fear this man. He fears this man, who is supposedly neither Mark's father nor having anything to do with him other than having been the one who lent him the noodle now clutched between his sweaty palms.

"No," Jacob insists. "This is Mike." Developing doubts about the identity of this "Mike", Jacob stammers, "Or – or maybe Mark."

Benny steps out of the shadows and dryly comments, "Sir, excuse me for saying so, but if you are uncertain as to your son's name – whether or not this boy is your son, of course, remains to be seen – it hints that you are probably not the most desirable caretaker. Of course, this is not necessarily the case, but I myself am a father and I feel that I ought to know how child-raising should be done."

Benny could not have said that any more smoothly. Always a gifted fabricator, he has proven himself to excel in matters of fabrication in years past, but that one simply _took the cake_, rendering Jacob Cohen speechless for what is probably the first time in his life. Benny is terrifically proud of himself, and Maureen even feels a tinge of attraction to the man with whom she has roomed for nearly a year. Of course, this is neither the point nor of any importance to just about anyone, but Maureen's momentary shock at being _attracted _to _Benny _startles her enough to break her model-esque pose. Jacob does not notice, of course, too busy gaping open-mouthed at Benny.

"Don't tell me anything about my _son_," Jacob growls at the man who is a stranger to him. "You don't even _know _him."

"So you admit," Maureen jumps in, "that your son's not here."

"No!" Mr. Cohen exclaims in horror. He then spins around to watch the retreating figure of Mimi splash through the water, Mark in her arms as she dashes towards the car. He muses something in a tiny voice that nobody else can hear, and all the bohemians are fairly certain what he is saying, but nobody asks and nobody comments. It seems that Roger in particular is the leader of the tribe, and when he says nothing, the others follow suit. "My son," Jacob says firmly, "_is _here. Or was. Where'd he – where'd he go?"

Roger simply shrugs, still imitating the voice and dialect he learned from his father. "I suppose Esmeralda took him over to the boardwalk for a frankfurter or something."

Benny chokes on a half-laugh. "_Frankfurter_?" he mouths.

Maureen meets his eyes and mouths back, "_Esmeralda_?"

As Benny and Maureen bond over the amusing nature of Roger's choppy, fragmented speech, the blonde (who apparently does not know when to quit) stumbles on, "He's been asking for a hot dog for awhile now, although at the rate he and Ezzy were running, I'd say they were probably going to the restroom as well."

"George," Benny says loudly, indicating that Roger is the George in question, "exactly how much have you had to drink this morning?"

"Very little," "George" replies, and smiles smugly. "You know what, I think I'm going to go get something from the car," he adds. "Lisa… Norman… Alex… Kate? Want to come with me?" he offers his friends, and it takes several moments to get the "otherwise engaged" Collins and Angel to realize that their "names" were mentioned in Roger's stream of names.

"Yeah, I'll come," Maureen answers immediately, and she grabs Benny's hand and begins to walk in the same direction as Mark. Collins and Angel quickly follow, and once Jacob realizes that they aren't coming back, he gets to his feet and begins splashing through the water in dismay, racing towards the group.

Benny catches on to the fact that Jacob has sped up and is running towards them, and he makes this fact very clear to his companions by breaking into a sprint, feet slapping the sand as he runs. Maureen, who spent a good portion of her adolescence and young adulthood learning to dance, is therefore the most physically fit of any of them, and so she speeds up and dashes into the parking lot, leaving the others trailing behind at a very fast (but not quite Maureen-esque) pace.

When Maureen, panting, reaches the car – in its original parking space due to the fact that Mimi simply cannot drive and would never even _attempt _it, knowing of her own incapabilities – she gasps out, "Roger – and Benny – and Collins – and Angel are coming. Squeeze in, we gotta – gotta squeeze in, they're running – from – you know. That guy."

"That guy's Mark's dad," Mimi points out.

Maureen nods. "Don't like him," she pants. Then, seeing the barest traces of a scuffle at the very fringes of the parking lot, she squeals and leaps into the car, settling in the far back so that entrance will be easier for her fellow bohemians. Mark and Mimi follow suit, taking the seats just next to Maureen and leaving open the seats in the middle and front rows. As it turns out, doing so was a brilliant idea, because Angel's figure becomes visible a moment later, charging through the parking lot and clutching the back of her bandana-like top. Mimi hurriedly leans forward and props the door open for her friend, which Angel appreciates as she jumps into the car, throws her towel over her body, and huddles in the seat Roger had occupied during the previous trip, in the middle behind the driver's seat.

"You okay?" Maureen asks Angel gently, breaking the silence that her arrival had caused.

Angel shakes her head. "It's very scary," she tells her friends honestly. "Don't think that it's not, or that you can't be scared, because – oh my god."

Angel breaks off as she sees Benny limping forward – well, not so much limping as _walking very slowly_, back hunched over like an old man's, with Collins's arm slung over his shoulder as he makes his way to the car. The two men look roughed up, with several bruises visible on Collins's face and arms and a very obvious black eye obscuring the majority of Benny's face. In the entryway to the parking lot, quick motions of fists and legs make it clear that a fight is taking place, lest it was not already so, but a flash of blond hair identifies who the fighters are, and without thinking, Maureen leaps up, climbs out of the car through the front passenger door – thus opening the door for Benny and Collins, although Benny may find usage of the other door to be preferable – and marches over to where the fight is taking place, ignoring her friends' protests.

It is, to be honest, worse than she expected. Roger is skinny and frail, while Jacob Cohen is strong and muscular, and Cindy Cohen hovers nearby, distracting Roger with her whimpers and trembles. Naturally, Mark's father is oblivious to this, having regularly caused said whimpers and trembles every day for the past thirteen years.

"Ro – George!" Maureen shrieks, throwing her arm out to stop a punch from landing on Roger's chest. Unknown to many, Maureen is quite capable of being an athlete, although she neglects from participating in sports due to a simple lack of interest. However, in cases such as these, she feels perfectly fine using her athletic powers for "good, not evil" and therefore is content with slamming her foot into Jacob Cohen's groin, causing him to double over in pain.

Maureen swings an arm over Roger's shoulder and escorts him to the car. Upon their settling in the middle row of seats in the car (the other bohemians having rearranged their seating order to accommodate the rearrival of Maureen and Roger), Benny immediately puts the car into drive and speeds off back onto the highway.

Roger, once he has caught his breath, turns to Maureen. "I shouldn't be thanking you for shredding and burying my pride, but thanks," he says, giving her an awkward hug. Then he adds with a wicked smile, "And you know what you did to Cohen? That… thing?" He gestures to his foot and then his crotch, making it fairly evident what the "thing" was, and continues, "Guys don't _do _that to other guys. It's an issue of not wanting it to be done back to _you_."

Maureen smirks. "Then you're lucky you're a girl, aren't you?"

Roger nods.

Benny and Collins in the front seat, Maureen and Roger in the middle, and Mark, Mimi, and Angel in the back all smile contentedly as small exchanges like Roger and Maureen's take place. In fact, they are so absorbed in these interactions that they do not notice anything outside of their little world, not even the pending danger faced as a result of having met Mr. Jacob Cohen at last.


	22. Cindy Cohen: The Life and Times

There is a knock at the door.

Roger glances at his companions. Having returned home from the Hamptons mere hours ago – three hours, to be exact – they are still rather unsure when it comes to dealing with people, particularly an unknown person or persons on the other side of the door. Even Angel, typically warm and welcoming, hesitates before starting for the door that doesn't even belong to her apartment. She lays her fingernails on the doorhandle and faces her fellow bohemians.

Roger sighs and crosses to the door himself, followed by Collins (his arms crossed over his chest as he assumes a protective stance in front of Angel) and Benny. In a single motion, Roger tugs the door open and blinks back at the person on the other side.

She is blond, skinny, and pale. Mark, asleep on the couch, is unaware of the presence of his sister in the very room in which he currently resides.

It is Cindy Cohen, alone and afraid.

Up until the third grade, Cindy Cohen was enrolled in New York City Public School #49, a notoriously underperforming school catering to the needs of those whom Cindy unaffectionately labeled as "morons", which they probably were. With high dreams for herself, Cindy aimed to eventually land herself in LaGuardia High School, a nationally acclaimed school with a heavy focus on theater, dance, and music. However, her dreams were extinguished upon her mother's death. It seems a cliché and oft-retold tale, but for Cindy, it was a harsh reality; following her mother's death, the daily beatings began.

The date of Cindy's mother's death was, in fact, the date of the birth of her brother. Of course, this was no coincidence. In giving birth to young Mark – named after Jacob's deceased brother without an ounce of consideration for what his wife, the late Sarah Cohen had wanted – Sarah promptly passed away, deeply saddening Jacob and Cindy, and bringing into the world a motherless child as well as beginning a young girl's life as a half-orphan.

In light of the new single-parent system going on in the Cohen household, Jacob directed his grief at his wife's death toward Cindy. Verbal abuse and physical beatings became regular and brutal. Cindy helplessly endured all this, although she was only eight when it began, and prayed that someone at school might notice. Unfortunately, it seemed that Jacob caught onto Cindy's hopes, and squashed them immediately.

In the middle of the summer prior to Cindy's entering the fourth grade came Jacob's declaration that Cindy would simply no longer attend school. At age nine, she secretly believed it was a blessing, until she realized that she could no longer see her friends or teachers, or even so much as hope to get into LaGuardia. However, after a month, there was a slight alteration to her father's initial proposition: under city law that even Jacob Cohen could not evade, records in the school system's database claiming that Cindy Cohen existed forced her to continue her schooling. And so she did… on a few conditions.

The conditions were, in fact, very brief and minimal. In the words of Cohen himself, "You can go to school… when you're up for it." Cindy did not know what his words meant at the time… but then his beatings, usually reserved only for times of his intoxication or particular fury, became more regular – and intense.

So on days when Cindy woke up with few bruises and with enough sense of mind to get to school, she went. Her last day was on the day prior to her eleventh birthday. That very evening – mere hours before Cindy turned eleven – she received a beating so brutal and fierce that not only did she abandon the hope of ever returning to school again, she encouraged her year-old brother to do the same.

Cindy's existence grew more and more unbearable as time passed. By the time she was ten, she had to deal with a two-year-old baby brother, the upkeep of her putrid apartment, the needs and demands of her alcoholic father, and of course the grief that she continued to suffer for her deceased mother. Not only that, but Cindy suffered the verbal, physical, and psychological daily abuse coming from her father and attempted to shield baby Mark from it as best she could. Her days were harsh, rough, and full of turmoil, only growing more excruciating upon the entrance of a _new _kind of torture into her life as she got older, courtesy of Jacob Cohen and his friends. Never having known anything about the human body or anatomy (probably because school was no longer an option for her), Cindy merely accepted sexual abuse into her regime.

There is little that this girl has not been taught to handle or overcome.

Now Roger stares at Cindy, baffled. He immediately detects the resemblance between Cindy and Mark (and surprisingly, _not _Jacob, a brunette who neglected to pass on his genes to his children) and recalls Mimi and Mark's previous mentions of a thirteen-year-old sister residing in the Cohen household. This appears to be her, with her arms wrapped around her skeleton-like torso and head down. "Hi," she whispers. "Is this where Mark is?"

Mimi steps up to the door. "Oh my god," she gasps. "_Cindy_? How did you get here?"

Cindy's frail body moves as her shoulders shift upward and then back down. "It was kind of an accident," she confesses. "I remembered the number from that thing on the back of your car and then Daddy told me to go outside and sit by the garbage, and I saw that car, so I went inside the building it was near. And I asked a lady on the bottom floor if she knew whose car it was and she said check the top so I did."

Roger is immediately struck by Cindy's simple manner of speaking, using words that Mark uses (albeit the words are, in Mark's case, oft used incorrectly and without certain letters and sounds). The next thing Roger realizes is the way Cindy's eyes dart around the room – trying to find her brother? In an attempt to be helpful, Roger informs her that "Mark's sleeping."

"Oh," Cindy says slowly. "Okay." She takes several steps backwards, towards the door, but suddenly decides to stand her ground. She feels tingling feelings in her stomach as she meets Roger's eyes and takes several steps towards him, transfixed. Clearing her head, she says softly, "Why is Mark here now?"

Roger sighs deeply. "Um," he begins, and then stops. "Maybe you should come in and sit down," he says at last, hesitant but unwilling to turn down the girl's inquiry, particularly in the face of the black-and-blue mark obscuring most of her face. Her pale skin, so similar to and reminiscent of Mark's, is so very different from the one bruise that catches the sun's rays beaming in from the window, touched by shadow though the loft is. Somehow Cindy has managed to procure the single spot of the loft from which one can see the sun.

Roger, who is possibly a bit jealous of Cindy for her having stolen "his" sun, draws up a chair for her and gestures for her to sit down. Cindy (who has not sat on furniture for years now) cautiously takes a seat, and it is upon her sitting down that Roger, Collins, Benny, Maureen, Mimi, and Angel begin to tell their tale and that of Mark.

They are only about mid-way through the story when there is a knock at the door, and a very authoritarian voice booms, "This is the police."


	23. Try Enforcing Laws on THEM

Benny is the first to recognize that the police's presence might be a problem. Roger, frozen with horror, has his eyes dart around the room in panic. Maureen clutches Mimi's arm, and Angel very calmly guides Cindy into the room in which Mark is calmly sleeping, then closes the door behind her. Collins and Benny hurriedly exchange urgent whispers before Benny gets to his feet and crosses to the door.

"Are you _crazy_?" Roger hisses over more knocking. "They'll find Mark and take him away!" Abashed, he adds, "And Cindy. But Mark! They'll make him live back with his dad, and – and – and – "

"Calm down," Benny says firmly. "I know what I'm doing. Angel and Mimi, could you take Mark and Cindy onto the fire escape and go through to Mimi's apartment?"

Rather than asking the predictable "Why us?", Angel and Mimi obediently retrieve the two children from the bedroom. Mark is clutched in Angel's hands as Mimi merely steers Cindy over to the window and onto the ledge, but it is nerve-wreaking, and Roger cannot help but watch in terror, especially as Angel's heels come in contact with the cracks on the fire escape stairs.

"Open this door immediately!" a voice booms, and Benny immediately slams the window shut – catching a piece of Angel's skirt in it as he does so. Angel, however, assumedly yanks away from the window, because there is a tearing noise and the cloth disappears. This is hardly the focal point, however, as Benny opens the door to the loft, and two policemen enter.

Collins, Benny, Roger, and Maureen are the four people present upon the policemen's entrance into the apartment. In his or her own way, each has dealt with law enforcement before – Collins wrangling out of any situation or crime he was accused of, Benny calmly paying off the officers he offended in any way, Roger narrowly avoiding confrontation by only seeking out dealers at nighttime, and Maureen by pulling down her collar and swaying her hips as policemen pass. (Of course, that latter scenario applies to _anyone _Maureen comes in contact with, not only cops.) However, experienced though each may be in the art of dealing with law enforcement, none has ever been confronted in so personal and meaningful a situation, accused of a crime that is, in fact, an act of goodwill.

"Is there a Mister Roger Davis here?" one of two officers asks.

"Uh," Roger begins, and prodded by Benny, he adds, "Y-yes."

The officers glance at one another. "Is there also a Mister Mark Cohen?"

It is here when Roger and Maureen fall back, unsure of what to say. Collins steps up, and in his smooth voice, he covers for his two loftmates. "No, sir, there isn't," he says in a sure voice, and is then immediately echoed by Benny and then Maureen.

"Well," one of the very confused officers says slowly, "I'm Officer Dan Nelson, I work with law enforcement – and this is my partner, Officer Howard Redd." A first name is not offered. "Would you mind if we ask you a few questions? There's been a child-napping in a nearby domicile, and we have been informed that residents of this building in particular may have had something to do with it.

Getting very into the whole _acting _thing, Maureen and Roger exchange faux-horrified glances. Determined not to overdo it, Roger refrains from watching the officers' reactions, but he does not suspect that they are particularly trusting of this small gesture. After all, police are supposed to be trained to observe people's reactions. Or _actions_, Roger amends within his mind. Actions like buying drugs. How many days has it been since Roger has done so, anyway? He jerks himself out of his own thoughts, however, upon being caught by the horrifying possibility that members of law enforcement can tell when drugs are common presences in people's minds.

"Yeah, sure," Collins is saying, although even the ever-confident Benny and Maureen – and yes, Collins as well – are looking less than sure. "What – individual, or all of us, or…"

"Well," one of the officers says, "Why don't you come with me, and we'll talk in another room." With a slight wrinkle of his nose, he delicately wonders, "_Is _there another room?"

Collins briefly regrets having removed Mark and Cindy from the premises as he and Officer Nelson retire to Roger's bedroom to discuss this mysterious child-napping. Officer Redd and Maureen, in the meantime, have a conversation of their own – probably because Officer Redd appears to be mostly gay. That's clever, Roger thinks to himself as he and Benny (under orders) head to another of the loft's rooms, this one being the bathroom. Have the hot girl talk to the gay cop, and the gay guy talk to the straight cop. Clever. Except, of course, that Collins has a long adolescent history of having "converted" heterosexuals to his own "team" by way of making initially unappreciated advances, and Maureen has never paid an ounce of attention to the recipient of her flirting's gender, sexuality, or romantic status (e.g., in a relationship). It seems to Roger that these police officers are mistakenly assuming that bohemians follow the same social norms as their non-bohemian counterparts in society. That is so far from being accurate that Roger actually laughs out loud before sharing his opinion with Benny, who also chuckles.

After Benny's interview by Officer Redd, Roger is merely waiting to be questioned by someone so he can stop feeling so anxious and nervous. Waiting in the bathroom, he is incredibly stressed, and in a long-sleeve shirt, he wonders if the officers would even notice more track marks on his arm. Upon thinking that, Roger grabs a long-hidden tiny packet of heroin and holds it close to him, pressing the plastic baggie against his arm as though mere proximity might provide him the high he needs. _Wants_, he reminds himself firmly. If he needs it, then it's an addiction. It's not an addiction.

But before Roger can so much as poke the needle against his arm, the door bangs open and Collins walks in. Hiding whatever shock he may or may not have, Collins plucks the needle out of Roger's fingers, snatches up the heroin bag, and discards both by dropping them out the window onto the ledge below. "Is there anything else hidden here?" he asks Roger seriously.

Roger shakes his head. It is a valid question, and he has the vague suspicion that Collins might be wondering about this not for Roger's own health, but because police officers tend to frown on illegal drugs. So he replies honestly; he never keeps more than one stash in the apartment at one time anyway, because if he did, he might forget about the surplus and buy more anyway.

"Well, good," Collins says. "You're up, Rog."

In theory, Roger can handle questioning, but not so much in actuality. As Officer Redd or Nelson or whoever it is pokes his head into the bathroom to see what is going on, Collins exits, leaving Roger alone. He feels much like he always used to when a standardized test booklet was plopped on his desk and he, not knowing what lay between the pages, was expected to know everything with only the help of a number-two pencil. Of course, the results of those very tests ended up being the deciding factor which led to Roger's departure for New York, so surely they couldn't be _all _bad. After all, if they were intended to show one one's path in life, they certainly worked for Roger. He cannot even imagine living as the tests may have wanted him to, back in his anonymous hometown, grouped among fervently success-focused teenagers and potential Ivy-League candidates.

Well, well, well. It seems that Roger's dazed high _does _occur as a result of proximity to his drug, not contact with blood. His thoughts are scrambled and focused on the past. But he has to change that quickly, because now the questions are being fired at him.

"Name, please?" Officer Nelson asks, although Roger has already told him his name. Roger replies as much, and with a sigh, the policeman verifies, "Mister Roger Davis?"

"Yep," Roger replies cheekily. He has never been one for respecting authority just for the sake of their being authority; if Officer Nelson or anyone else, for that matter, can prove to Roger that there is something to be respected about any solitary authority figure, Roger may change his tune. For now, however, Roger is indifferent to the badge on Nelson's chest.

With an air of one who would like to return to his warm donuts, Nelson sighs deeply. "Are you familiar with a Mark Cohen?"

Roger, looking back on this moment, will remember the obvious shriek of glee coming from the floor below, and will recall having telepathically pleaded with Angel and Mimi to _shut that boy up_. It is very obviously Mark making that noise, and Roger hopes against hope that there is no sign of recognition on his face. "No," he says very quietly, and a new scrawl is added to the notepad on Nelson's lap.

"What are your past experiences with children?" Nelson tries.

Roger allows himself to look nostalgic, now; he closes his eyes briefly and loosely clasps his hands together in "remembrance". "Well," Roger says in a voice that is shaking deliberately, "when I was sixteen, my mother and father were killed in a house fire. Along with them was my baby sister. She was four." He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes he doesn't seem overdone. After all, he is a singer, not an actor, and he is used to performing just as his heart and body direct him. Then again, he hasn't performed in forever. He's surprised he still remembers how.

Officer Nelson looks not only unfazed, but also doubtful. Of course, it is unspeakable for anyone – least of all a police officer pretending to _care _– to voice one's suspicions on a matter as sensitive as a child's death. So he puts on a mask and insincerely tells Roger, "I'm sorry for your loss. However, we at the police station fear that the same tragic fate may meet one child if we cannot find him. Are you familiar with a Jacob Cohen?"

Roger, veins pulsing with fury at this man for being completely _tactless _and _ignorant_ and most likely _fresh out of college_, smoothly replies in the negative. "Look," he says in a faux-irritated tone, "I just moved here, okay? I don't know _any _of my neighbors." This lie has Roger panicking the moment he lets it slip. For a split second he has the horrifying thought that it may be his name listed on the lease, but no – a few recollections remind him that it is Collins', not Roger's, and even a search on Lexis Nexis would fail to show that Roger has lived in the loft for a whopping _four years_.

"When did you move here?" Nelson inquires, pen poised at his notepad.

Roger quickly invents, "Three months ago."

Nelson, who was probably expecting an exact date, frowns. "Could you be more specific?"

Roger shrugs. "Dunno," he says, in the sing-song tone he _knows _is one hundred percent certain to aggravate the recipient of such speech. Since he is becoming steadily unsure in this topic, he decides to change the subject. And so he does. "Hey," he says slowly, "I think I know someone who knows all the neighbors. He might be able to give you an idea."

"Who might that be?" Officer Nelson queries.

Roger replies, bearing in mind his most-hated neighbor, "This drug dealer guy. He's on the second floor, I think. Maybe." Remembering that he doesn't know "any" of his neighbors, Roger explains, "He tried to sell to me once. But – I don't do that shit."

Nelson nods. "Well, thank you for that information," he says, probably eager to leave the odorous bathroom as quickly as possible, and to no longer have to deal with Roger's acidic half-answers. Sure enough, he places a hand on the doorknob and twists it, and after gathering up his fellow police officer and taking several long strides toward the main "exit", Nelson is gone.

Roger, Maureen, Benny and Collins watch the two officers leave. As the door slides shut behind them, the four bohemians breathe a collective sigh of relief, _thrilled _that nothing terrible happened. They are still tense, however, and Roger and Maureen are nervous that perhaps Officers Nelson and Redd might stop at Mimi's apartment on their way out, or at least, on their way to April's. With that in mind, Roger and Maureen, followed by Collins and Benny, make their way down the fire escape to the floor below. Sure enough, Angel is already half-up the stairs with Cindy following behind her and Mark in her arms.

"How'd it go?" Angel asks upon reaching the loft and setting Mark and Cindy down on a couch.

Roger sighs deeply, exhausted, and Collins echoes the sentiment. "I," Maureen says proudly, "got his number. Howard Redd. _Howard_. Can you believe that?"

Everyone laughs, and Maureen adds, "I don't know if asking me my age, weight, and relationship status is part of a standard interview, but he seemed to be pretty focused on that."

Angel smiles. "Well, I don't know how Mimi's gonna hold up with a horny officer, because she's still in her bikini," she tells her companions confidentially. "Well – and a towel."

"Roger?" comes a small voice from the couch. The bohemians turn to see Mark looking over at them, thumb in his mouth, legs dangling off the couch. "Roger, why – why is Cindy here?"

Aghast with her brother's behavior – speaking out of turn would _never _have been tolerated in their father's house – Cindy gasps. "_Mark_!" she hisses. "Don't do that!"

Roger, having not noticed Cindy's outburst, explains, "Well, Mark, I think Cindy just wanted to be with you. Isn't that right, Cindy?"

Cindy, who does not agree with Roger but knows never to orally disagree with an adult, quietly agrees. She then adds, "I'm sorry about Mark talking when he's not supposed to. Please don't punish him, he's only five and he didn't know and you should punish me instead." Her voice is robotic. She knows that requesting to take her brother's punishment never works on her father, but maybe Roger – who looks nicer – just might agree.

Roger, who by some random twist of thoughts did not even begin to consider that Cindy might expect punishment, shakes his head. "No, Cindy, we don't do that punishment thing. Okay? No punishment here."

Mark beams at Cindy. "He's _nice_," he tells his sister earnestly. "Roger's _nice_."

Cindy nods cautiously. "Yeah… nice," she repeats, but she trains a skeptical eye on Roger as though expecting him to come lunging at her out of nowhere with a knife grasped in one hand and manacles in the other. Roger in turn steadily watches Cindy's confusion, hoping she won't do anything rash. It has been a long time since Roger has had to worry about fending off thirteen-year-old girls, and he hopes he won't have to resort to that in any upcoming instance. With the deep-in-thought expression on Cindy's face, however, Roger wonders whether or not he will be so lucky.

"Oh my god!" Angel exclaims suddenly. "I just had an _idea_!"

Everyone looks to her for elaboration, but Angel shakes her head. "No, no, I have to wait for Mimi."

"Well," proposes Benny, "why don't you go get her?"

"Go get her?" Angel repeats. "Go down the stairs and knock on her door and tell her to come with me?"

"Yeah," Benny says. "Sure."

Angel thinks about it for another moment, and then shrugs. Getting to her feet and heading towards the main door, she murmurs, "Okay."


	24. Traitors Never Win, Or Is That Quitters?

The steps are to Angel a metaphor. It isn't that she spends her time thinking in poetics, nor that she particularly cares for figurative language (being a street drummer) – it is merely the first thing that comes to her mind in this particularly instance. Her metaphor is along the lines of the stairs being, well, what stairs always are in metaphors – a sign of one's escalating through life. With that fleeting thought, Angel hesitates on the fifth-to-last step leading to Mimi's apartment. She's going _downstairs_; descending the stairs means, metaphorically, that one is proceeding through life in the reverse. This has never been Angel's intention, and so she slows her steps. But of course, in the end it is necessary that she reaches Mimi's door, and so she does. When she is no more than three feet away, however, the door opens, and two uniform-clad individuals exit.

"Good afternoon, officers," Angel says brightly, because she _loves _confounding people, particularly people whose sole intentions in life are to make others' lives more difficult, as is the case with figures of law enforcement such as police officers (in particular, New York City police officers).

One of the two men briefly looks Angel up and down, surveying her, and Angel is almost sure that she caught a flash of the name _Redd _engraved in gold on his badge – and wasn't that the name of Maureen's supposed admirer? But before she can give it any serious thought, the man turns away – possibly as a result of a low whisper in his ear by his companion, which probably informed him of Angel's "real" gender.

Angel, who is tired of thinking already and wants to have some _dialogue _in her life, skips the final three feet to Mimi's door and knocks. "Brownie scout selling cookies!" she shrieks through the door, and is pleased to note that the officers, halfway through their descent leading to the floor directly below Mimi's, come to a sudden halt. They then shoot Angel disbelieving looks and proceed in their walk, just moments before Mimi's door is flung open and a bikini-top-and-towel-clad girl emerges, her dark hair straining to touch the floor but not quite making it.

"Well, hello," Angel says amusedly, taking in her friend's appearance. Mimi, she decides, looks utterly ravished, the one problem being that of course Mimi _hasn't _just been ravished; she has, in fact, been talking with officers of the law. Is there some sort of dress code for meeting with police officers? Chances are that there isn't, considering the "visit" was utterly impromptu and unwanted and, in fact, legally enforced so that despite Mimi's unwillingness to discuss anything with the officers, she was legally compelled to.

"Hi," Mimi says, and her tone is hoarse, the way it is when she has just performed multiple acts over at the Catscratch, an occurrence that is neither uncommon nor particularly undesirable. That is because on _most _occasions, Mimi doesn't have to deal with feelings for her upstairs neighbor, worries with regard to an ex-something-or-other – exactly what _is _the word for the relationship Mimi previously had with Jacob? – and an adorable set of abused children that need to find legal shelter in the homes of their new caretakers. These are not typical worries of the average eighteen-year-old girl. Mimi, to her own delight and horror, is far from average.

Angel and Mimi make their way up the stairs to Roger, Collins, Maureen and Benny's apartment, only to enter and realize that yes, Cindy is quite the devious little girl, because there she sits on top of Roger's lap as she throws punch after punch at the young man's shoulder. Benny appears to be mildly amused, probably because Roger recently said something to Benny's detriment, and so "he deserves it" is the side that Benny has elected to take. Collins, Maureen, and Mark, however, are fiercely attempting to pull the violent little girl _off _of Roger, preferably before he loses consciousness. (After all, Cindy's foot is rather painfully pressed against Roger's groin.)

With two extra pairs of hands, Cindy is at last hoisted off of Roger's person and deposited in Maureen's bedroom with only said diva for company. (Loath as Cindy may be to admit it, she finds herself not hating Maureen, despite her hatred of every other bohemian with whom she comes in contact.) The others, meanwhile, remain in the main room – Mark, curled up on Roger's lap, is protectively stationed in front of his guardian as though to warn off potential threats to Roger. "Your bodyguard's glaring at me," Mimi whines to Roger, but he merely shrugs.

"Deal with it," Roger tells Mimi tonelessly, stroking the hair of his miniature roommate. "Hey, Marky?"

"Yeah, Roger?" Mark asks softly. Roger adores the way Mark's head moves up and down on his pillow of Roger's leg, as though trying to procure as much comfort as possible, or as though trying to keep Roger warm (in the middle of summer). Roger likes to think that it is the former, mostly because it's plenty warm in the loft already.

Roger, who cannot help but smile, merely kisses the top of Mark's head. "I love you, Mark," he says.

"Me too," Mark answers immediately, and wraps his tiny hands around Roger's leg. "Love you."

Mimi, who is eighteen years old, after all, despite her traits that oddly resemble maturity, coos over the pair of them, hopelessly adoring. "You guys are so _cute_!" she near-shrieks, chocolate-colored eyes wide and vaguely resembling stonededness. "God, Roger, _wow_." She falls in love, utterly hopeless love, with Mark and the adorable relationship he has with Roger, and maybe just plain Roger as well. Of course, that is a story for another day, and Mimi manages to force it below the surface for the time being.

After several minutes, Angel arranges herself, skirt billowing around her, on top of the table. "Attention, everyone," she calls. Even though her tone is soft and barely above the average speaking voice, Angel is heard even in Maureen's room. Both Cindy and her momentary caretaker emerge from the bedroom, allowing an onslaught of pink to be exposed to the other bohemians.

Collins, half-immersed in a conversation with Benny, takes the opportunity to clap his hands over his eyes. "Shield me!" he howls, and Maureen playfully punches him in the arm.

"Ahem," Angel says loudly. "Attention, please." As the room quiets, she offers a huge smile to the group. "Okay, well, I had an idea."

"No shit!" yells Benny, who makes a habit out of making rude comments at performances, and Angel's is enough of one for him to feel at home yelling up at the stage.

Angel shoots him a superior look and huffily turns away. "Well. My plan is as follows – wait. If anyone here has a camera, can you go get it, please?"

Benny, who has a camera, unlike his fellow loftmates, obliges. As the tiny camcorder in question is passed from Benny's hands to Angel's, it passes over Mark's lap. The five-year-old reaches out for it, his hand stretched towards the silvery surface, but Angel takes it out of the little boy's grasp. His eyes never leave the device, however, nor does his attention waver.

"Well, this should work," Angel says after a moment's pause. "Mimi. The plan involves you having to do something. You'd have to go and lurk in a corner of Cohen's apartment and film some exchange between him and Cindy. Okay? That's what we'll found our case on."

Blank stares meet Angel's proposal. Even Mark is hazy-eyed, although that is most likely a result of his unwavering staring at the camera. "C'n I see?" he asks inopportunely. The timing is poor, as Angel's great expectations of a positive response to her proposition are let down at the very moment. In the Cohen household, such timing would result in a beating. This thought crosses Mimi's mind as she, like Mark, watches the immobile camera.

"I'll do it," Mimi replies, thus interrupting the answer Mark hoped to receive.

"Great," Angel says. She drops the camera into Mimi's hands, and Mimi stares at the silvery object as it catches the room's light, reflecting it up onto the face of the dancer.

It is at that moment that Mark reaches out swiftly, tired (as all five-year-olds are at some point or another) of being ignored, and yanks the camera out of Mimi's palm. Mimi, who was not expecting this, yelps and moves suddenly, causing her head to be knocked into Mark's shifting arm. This would not ordinarily be a problem, except that Mimi, although she wouldn't admit to it, is frailer than she appears – quite a feat for a girl of her weak body mass – and is knocked over by the force. Or to be more exact, she _topples; _Mimi stumbles, she backs up, she trips over a foot or two, and before anyone can do so much as gasp, Mimi is on the ground. As she falls, a tiny cylindrical object slides out of her pocket.

Roger, Collins, Benny and Maureen double-take. Even the youthful Cindy knows what that bottle symbolizes, and although she is not entirely sure what it means in this particular instance, she would recognize the AZT bottle anywhere. But that is not the issue. Along with the pill bottle comes something else from Mimi's pocket, which is a tiny scrap of graying paper. Something compels Benny to pick it up and read it, and against Roger's protests, he does so – aloud.

"J. C.," he reads tonelessly, followed by a series of ten numbers. (For nothing other than a phone number could these numbers be confused; even on the paper are the numbers separated by three, three, and four, and begin with two-one-two. Two-one-two is of course the insignia of a long-time New Yorker's phone number (as is nine-one-seven and the odd seven-one-eight, but neither is quite as memorable as the former).

It takes several moments for the words to sink in, until at last a hoarse-voiced Roger utters, "J. C. Jacob Cohen. Right?"

Cindy is stone-faced, refusing to give anything to either side. She knows even as she does so that she is acting the part of a storybook character she read about in her most recent (final) year of school and for whom she felt a sense of empathy: Mayella Ewell, of a certain Great American Classic discussed as such, as though its common adjectives ought to be spoken with capitalization.

Collins takes the telephone receiver in one hand and dangles it before Roger's eyes. "One way to find out," he says, and the bohemians unite against the traitor that Mimi _just may be_ as Benny hits first the speakerphone button, then the code with which he blocks the number, and at last, with trembling fingers, dials out the phone number that might be Jacob Cohen's.


	25. The First To Be Condemned

"Hello?"

Jacob Cohen.

The phone clatters down. All eyes spin towards Roger. "I can't fucking believe you!" he yells, hands inching towards Mimi's throat. Collins interferes, grabbing Roger's wrists and holding them behind his back. It takes much effort, and is reminiscent of his half-completed withdrawal that does not look like it will be completed anytime soon, especially with the new stashes being acquired daily.

Mimi cringes backwards. "I said I'm sorry," she whimpers. "Don't – don't, Roger, c'mon, we were friends, and I liked you, and…"

"Shut the fuck up," Roger snarls. "You _proved _that you were a traitor. Fucking bitch."

Benny steps forward. "Roger, calm down," he says cautiously. "Look, I'm sure Mimi has a good explanation…"

"Yeah," Angel says coldly. Her voice has never seemed so devoid of warmth as it does when she declares, "She'd better."

Mimi nods. "I – I do," she says frantically. "I – I believe that all children should be with their parents. No matter what." She knows even as she says it that her excuse is beyond pathetic, but it at least stops Roger from lunging at her. Either that is what stops him or it is Collins' hands clasping his arms together that does the trick. Whichever it is, Mimi knows not to be too relieved.

"That's pathetic," growls Maureen. "Get the hell out of this house. _Now_."

Collins shakes his head urgently. "Don't," he says wisely. "She'll go tattling to Jacob. What I think we're going to have to do, actually, is scare her so bad she won't talk."

"You're evil," Angel says, sidling up beside him.

"Not the time, Angel," Collins says firmly – but gently. It is hard to be anything but kind to Angel.

Angel, who finds it hard to focus on a topic so completely undesirable as Mimi's treachery, instigates a tickle-fight between herself and Collins. The latter, also overwhelmed, complies. As they tickle one another and exchange brief kisses, Mimi is lifted up by the scruff of her collar and plopped into Benny's arms.

"What the…" Mimi begins, but decides not to speak. Benny then carries her out of the apartment, up a set of stairs, and onto the roof.

"Stay," he tells her, as though she were a dog. Apparently catching on to this as well, he adds, "Bitch."

The door to the roof slams and locks.

This would, to many people, present a problem.

Mimi, however, is a dancer. She is flexible and can withstand minor injuries such as scratches and cuts. These qualities are beneficial as she, clinging onto the roof's shingles, slowly begins to descend the building. She clasps the upper joints of her fingers around the top of the roof, her feet dangling over the edge as she frantically searches for a foot hold. When none is in sight, Mimi takes a chance – she releases the top of the roof with one hand and grips a protruding screw. Her other hand, then, she releases. With that she holds a cylindrical bit of metal that appears to be attached to the brick. She is in for the shock of her life when it crumbles to the ground, and screams when it falls to the ground. In a single quick motion, she grabs onto a jutting brick. Her feet find similar spots in the brick as well, and she relaxes briefly as a slow descent is made.

Then she sees something.

_The fire escapes_. They are on another side of the building, but if she can sidestep for long enough, she might be able to find them. It isn't as far-fetched as some of Mimi's other accomplishments, like her _brilliant _acting job as a spy pretending to be a benevolent friend. She _is_, in fact – but that is not one of the topics that she desires to consume her mind. And so as she moves slowly to the left, she concerns herself with something else, something that is perhaps even more important: _the case_. The legal case, that is. Davis/Johnson/Collins/Schunard/Coffin v. Cohen. Cohen/Marquez, she tells herself, before realizing that that is neither the case, nor will it ever be. She does not bear a place of significance with Jacob, and regrets having left the bohemians, if only for that reason. Then she remembers that she didn't leave _them_. They abandoned her. They deserve the legal ass-whipping they're about to receive.

When she reaches the corner between her current side of the building and the one with the fire escapes, Mimi tells herself to exercise extreme caution. Of course, thinking it – consciously saying to oneself, _Be careful_ – is a well-known jinx, so the near-heart attack that Mimi possibly has upon her transition from one wall to the next is almost expected. Her toes skid downward, just a bit, and as she slides towards the ground, Mimi reaches up and grabs the metal ladder of Roger's fire escape. In a move that she is sure she will never be able to replicate, Mimi swings herself up and over and onto the stairway. Her knees and hands level with one another on all-fours, Mimi abashedly gets to her feet and begins to daintily descend the stairs.

But of course, Mimi's breezy descent cannot last long. By the time she reaches the ground, there are two police cars parked on the side of the road. "Excuse me, Miss Marquez?" calls one.

_Fuck_. She remembers him. He interviewed her this morning. _Oh, fuck_.

"Miss Marquez, would you happen to know the whereabouts of your upstairs neighbors?" the officer inquires. "We have a warrant for their arrest on grounds of kidnap."

Mimi looks back and forth, from the policeman to the building and then back. Her brown eyes wide like a deer's in the headlights, she bobs her head up and down. "They're in their apartment," she says, and runs back to Jacob's house before another word can be said.

As she races away, Mimi's keys rattle out of her pocket and onto the ground. The cop, who needed some way of getting into the building anyway, calls after her briefly before inserting a jagged bronze key into the lock of the building.

When Mimi arrives back at the house of the Cohens – formerly Jacob, Cindy and Mark Cohen and Mimi Marquez, currently just the former and the latter – she fiercely knocks on the door. "Jacob!" she shrieks. "Jacob, I – I have to tell you something!"

The door opens to reveal the unshaven face of a man whose eyes have done so much glaring, it is a wonder that they have not fallen out. "What the hell do you want – oh. Mimi. Whatever, get inside."

Mimi obliges him and, panting, explains the situation. She concludes with "…and the cops were there, and they got inside."

Jacob nods. "Okay," he says.

"Okay?" Mimi repeats. "But – you'll have to go to trial!"

Another nod. "Yes," he replies slowly, as though Mimi were retarded. "As will you."

"As will – I will _not_!" she snaps, knowing that she will. Testifying is not something she does not want to do, so she changes the subject. "Look – Jake – can I use the phone?"

"_Jacob_," he corrects her irritably. "And I already told you you're not allowed to use the phone unless you're answering it for me."

Mimi scowls. "But there's someone I need to call. Someone I need to explain something to."

"Absolutely not," Jacob says instantly. "By the way – was Cindy in that infernal rats' nest as well? She's not here."

Mimi looks down. "Yes," she replies dully.

"Good," he says. "More shit to get on them. Anything else? Drug possession?"

Mimi bites back a _Look who's talking _and instead mutters, "Yes." She lets her dark hair fall in her eyes as she stares at her feet and the ratty ground.

As though reading her thoughts, Jacob orders, "Clean the apartment." Then, he adds, "Mimi, we're gonna go over to a lawyer's office in a half hour to organize the lawsuit and conditions, and so on."

Mimi gets to her knees on the ground and feels the dust that has somehow been acquired in her thirteen months of not living with Jacob full-time. Thirteen months. It seems like so much longer than it really is.

"Okay, fuck that," Jacob says hurriedly. "Don't clean, just get up. Shower. Put on some clothes, for god's sake, it looks like you were just at the freakin' beach." Then he remembers: "Oh, that's right. You _were_. Okay, well Mimi, you have five minutes before I drag you to the office, 'kay?"

Mimi, who wants nothing more than to go back to Roger and apologize for everything she's done, follows Jacob's lead, slips into the bathroom, and prepares herself for the soul-selling condemnation in which she is about to partake.

Two streets over and six floors up, a half-planning session, half-party is taking place. Roger, Collins, and Benny search the refrigerator for some sort of intoxicating substance; Maureen and Angel entertain Mark and Cindy in a fierce game of Monopoly.

And several village-sized segments of Manhattan to the northeast of Jacob's humble home, Joanne Jefferson prepares for her meeting with Jacob Cohen, a name that she does not connect to that of her former client's opponent.


	26. How Long 'Till Showtime?

To her credit, Joanne understands the crisis the second Jacob and Mimi enter her office door. The fact that she does not get up and shoo them both out of the building, however, is strike one against her. Strike two? The fact that she warmly welcomes the two inside and lets them sit down and casually sips from her bottled water, pleased that she is inside with air-conditioning rather than outside in the stifling heat.

"What can I do for you two?" she asks as soon as she is organized.

Mimi squirms in her seat as Jacob responds, "I would like to press charges against my son children's kidnappers."

Jacob was, growing up, a good Jewish boy with good Jewish parents who took him to work once a year to allow him to see the inside of his father's legal office. These impressions stuck with Jacob as he grew up, and he always remembered the things he had learned from inside his father's company building – how to negotiate, how to persuade, how to charm people, and how to make a lasting impression. He also taught himself how to speak in legal terms, using phrases such as "press charges" and words such as "attorney" to make himself feel smarter, despite the fact that said words aren't really as professional-sounding as he always assumed they were.

Joanne, as a lawyer, sees below the surface, and catches the fact that Jacob is very smug – in truth, because of his professional manner. Joanne, however, is of the opinion that he is smug due to something else, and makes it her business to figure out what that might be.

"Do you know these individuals personally?" she asks innocently. "By name, by face, through past relationships?"

Choosing his words carefully, Jacob erupts into a highly condensed and extremely biased revision of what had happened since, in fact, the death of Mark's mother. If either Mimi or Jacob finds it interesting that Joanne does not take notes, neither comments; Mimi, because she knows that Joanne already has this information, and Jacob because he is too focused on phrasing his lies smoothly.

When Jacob's story finishes ("So then last night, Mimi discovered that my daughter was kidnapped by these monsters as well, and I just can't take it anymore"), Joanne nods curtly and reviews the clipboard that she now wishes contained notes she could review. Instead, she says, "I see." She waits for something more to be said.

Jacob, who has never liked battles of waiting, very bluntly declares that "I want you to represent me in court."

Mimi sighs deeply, and Joanne is oblivious to the sharp kick administered to the young dancer's ankle.

In fact, Joanne's dilemma in coming to a decision is more serious than either Jacob or Mimi could begin to comprehend. Although representing Mr. Cohen would be a tremendous challenge and a wonderful experiment to see how good of a lawyer she truly is, Joanne wonders if perhaps right-from-wrong might come into play. Right and wrong are terms unheard of when it comes to lawyers, but Joanne merely wonders if restoring a child to an abusive home might not be the best thing to do.

In the end, it all boils down to one thing. Joanne chooses her words carefully. "Mr. Cohen, your case interests me," she says truthfully. "However, it would require a great deal of effort on my part. That in mind, I would sincerely appreciate it if you might design an alternate paying scheme, so that my additional efforts would be rewarded financially."

Jacob purses his lips. He considers. He thinks _hard _and lets his consideration shine in his determined eyes. In the end, however, he is back to his usual tactic of fabrication. "Anything," he says with a forced tremble in his voice, "to get my children back."

Joanne is used to these displays, and is not particularly interested in whether it is authentic or not. She merely suggests, "As I usually charge four hundred per hour, shall we say five-fifty?"

Jacob nods and chokes back another "sob" as Mimi rubs circles on his shoulder and forearm. "It's okay, Jacob, love," she tells him solemnly, biting back her own laughter. Joanne ignores the two of them, typing something up on her computer that seems to have her in an unbreakable trance.

"You okay there?" asks Jacob, for whom sexual intercourse is the only plausible reason that he might find himself in so forceful a stupor.

Joanne grimaces at her screen and continues to ignore him for the next three seconds, after which a document begins to print itself from the office printer. She scans it carefully and hands it to Jacob. "Sign here," she says, gesturing to a line. Jacob complies, and she then indicates four other locations in which he must sign. The document, only three-fourths of a page long, contains five locations in which Jacob must sign and seven spots for his initials. Having not signed a single thing since opening his first bank account, Jacob enjoys himself immensely in doing so.

After signing, Jacob and Mimi leave, and Joanne breathes a heavy sigh of relief. The meeting was extraordinarily eventful for her, even in the absence of drama such as that held by the bohemians.

In realizing what she just thought, Joanne double-takes. She pauses in mid-air, dropping her coffee cup. She is frozen.

_I thought I was done with them_, she tells herself frantically. _Haven't thought about them in over a week. Except for Maureen… _

And of course that is the problem. Maureen is the one whom Joanne's mind simply refuses to release. The long flowing chestnut curls, the innocent eyes, the tight-fitting clothes – everything about the young woman is captivating to Joanne Jefferson, who has seen people of such beauty within her own office that being attracted to a starving artist is literally bewildering. And yet it is happening.

Joanne realizes now that she initially regarded Maureen as a drama queen. While this is entirely accurate, there is more to it – the fact that Joanne, a supposed "successful" lawyer, is overtly dramatic as well. Real lawyers, she has been taught since freshman year of law school, do not pick and choose their cases. They take the cases that come to them, despite possible difficulties in payment or reliable clients or _whatever_. People who need legal help deserve it. It is the city law, it is the state law, and it is a law of ethics.

So it was wrong to dump the bohemians' case.

Furthermore, it was wrong to leave them with no other options.

It was wrong to abandon them all with a child to take care of and no finances to speak of.

Especially Maureen.

But now Joanne has another case to handle, and there is nothing she could do to eliminate that enemy factor even if she wanted to. Which – she does.

Well, there is one thing, she knows.

If one is ever told that talent is a rarity in the legal business, one is being lied to. Those that become lawyers are in large destined for the job; either that, or they have been conditioned in such a way that they can mask their lack of natural ability. Joanne falls under both categories. Although her legal skills are certainly average, she is by no means the best in the business, or in fact even above New York City standards. Her price, however, is fairer than most, and her willpower strong enough to win her many a case. So she by no means lacks clients.

Thus publicity for Joanne is a factor in how many patrons she has. At any one time she may have between six and twenty clients in need of legal help, and occasionally, upon the climax of any one case, she will have another case drawing to a close as well. The fact that she manages to take on her many responsibilities is part of what makes her the success that is Joanne Jefferson, and she relies on her reputation.

But if she were to lose a case, things would be unthinkable.

She has lost before.

She is currently losing a very large case, in fact, this one involving a mother who walked out on her husband and sons and became engaged in an affair. A week after her departure from her family, she discovered that she was pregnant, and her husband wants the baby. Joanne, unfortunate enough to have the side of the father, is well aware of the fact that a mother _always _wins the children, except in highly extenuating circumstances that rarely arise.

But losing a case that ought to be a cinch? Getting a little boy back to his father after being snatched up on a city street? Unthinkable.

And yet it is the only thing Joanne can imagine might be beneficial.

So with that, she endures three weeks of further meetings.

In the last week of August, the court date is set for the third of September. Joanne has exactly five days to prepare for her impending loss.

She puts it off until the very night beforehand, upon which she chugs an entire bottle of champagne at midnight and collapses on her bed, Maureen on the brain.


	27. The Clock is Ticking

"Fuck!"

Roger, it seems, requires a tie.

In a last-minute attempt to win the lawsuit, each of the bohemians – Benny, Collins, Angel, Roger, and Maureen – has rented or borrowed a suit or skirt-and-blouse set. Making an appearance, Benny explained earlier while adjusting his borrowed cuff links, is crucial.

Much as Angel hates to admit it as she slithers into a button-up shirt and pair of men's pants, Benny may be correct. Wigless and dressed in a way that confounds Mark ("But Angie, aren't you a girl?"), Angel sits sullenly on the couch, awaiting the preparation of her loftmates.

Benny, after Angel, is the second to emerge. His suit and tie looking perfectly at home on his slightly burly figure, he sits down beside Angel and announces, "I've never seen you dressed so… _male _before."

With a cackle, Angel inquires, "Is that a compliment?"

"I don't know," Benny responds. "You could almost pass for a guy. Of course, then there are those eyelashes…"

"Benjamin Coffin," declares Angel in a tone of mock-horror, "are you _hitting _on me?"

"No," responds Benny, "I'm just tense out of my mind and want a fucking beer."

Sympathetically, Angel inquires, "None left?"

"None left," repeats Benny. "It's a real tragedy."

"Well," says Angel, "at least you didn't manage to screw up the dressing-professional thing. I mean, I dread seeing what kind of monstrosity Roger has put together – "

A door bangs open and a dark blonde-haired creature of some sort exits, his hair gelled down to his head and neck. Looking alien in a suit and tie, he wails, "I look awful!"

"Wow," comments Maureen, emerging from the bathroom with her hair perfectly straightened down to her waist, decked out in an extremely modest blouse and skirt. "That's usually what me and Angel are yelling, so hearing it from you is a really nice change, Roger. You have no idea."

"Fuck off and die, Maureen," Roger grumbles. "I look like shit."

"I think you look cute," Angel volunteers. At that moment, Collins and Cindy exit Maureen's bedroom, Collins in a suit identical to his friends' and Cindy in one of Maureen's skirts (lucky that girl is so skinny, and that Cindy is short enough to appear modest even in Maureen's absurdly short skirt that more closely resembles a piece of fabric) and one of Roger's inside-out band tee-shirts. This outfit would be considerably better had she not tried and failed to look even remotely appropriate in shirts belonging to Maureen, whose breast size insists upon making things difficult.

Mark is next to emerge, causing immense cooing among the girls and even an "aww" from Collins and Benny. Roger stoically refuses to react apart from smiling, but that is enough for Mark, who squeals in delight and leaps onto his caretaker's lap. "Roger, wha's happening?" he asks, arms around Roger's neck with Roger's arms keeping him securely sitting on his guardian's knees.

"Um…" Roger glances around at his friends, unsure as to how to phrase the fact that he and his roommates are going to take legal action against an alcoholic father of two young children, one of whom is Mark, who is being defended by Joanne Jefferson, a supposed expert in family law. He has no idea how to explain that if something goes wrong today by the attorneyless bohemians, Mark may very well end up in his father's hands. This gamble is impossible to describe in words – unless, that is, Cindy is the one speaking. Unfortunately, she is.

"See, Mark, what's happening today," she says, "is that we're all gonna go yell at Daddy in fancy clothes with our hair all clean and stuff. Except if he yells louder and gets people to feel bad for him, we have to go and live with him."

Collins raises an eyebrow. Crude and blunt as always, he inquires, "If you weren't educated past whatever grade, how do you know all this?"

"A book I read once," she responds shortly, and says no more. Collins knows all the classics anyway, and most likely knows what Cindy is talking about.

"People," says Roger loudly, "can we move on, please? Look." He turns to Cindy. "Just wondering, Cindy, do you like your dad?"

A mutinous glare is his only response. When Maureen turns to the younger girl and asks the same question, however, Cindy shrugs. "I hate him," she says lightly, "but I'm used to him. If I had to live with him again, I could do it."

Reading between the lines, Collins knows what she is saying. Adopting the mentality of her favorite book character, the wise-beyond-her-years teenager has decided not to get her hopes out, knowing how warped the legal system can be. Collins releases a whistle of how impressed he is, though of course also sad that the young girl has already been exposed to this utter _fuckery_. Then again, if not now, when?

This philosophy has certainly not yet managed to reach Mark. Clutching Roger with all his might, the little boy whimpers, "I don't wanna go back t'Daddy."

"You won't," Collins promises, but in truth he has no idea whether or not this is the case. Joanne, he knows, is certainly a proficient attorney. Will five bohemians defending themselves be enough?

_We'll have to be_, he realizes, and checks his watch. "Nine-thirty," he announces. Ingrained already in everyone's mind is _Trial starts at eleven_.

Even Mark chirps, "Is that near 'leven?"

Maureen giggles and pats his head. "Near enough," she says determinedly, and hoists herself to her feet. "Now's as good a time as any," she says wearily, and extends an arm to Roger. "Up, Davis," she orders, and Roger, still holding Mark, complies.

Cindy turns to Collins, her eyes huge and so clearly blue that he wonders why he never saw the resemblance between the siblings before. "Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" she asks sadly.

Collins nods, feeling a jolt of something that might perhaps be recognition – Cindy is so very like a teenage version of himself, resignedly going from one foster home to the next, that he cannot help but adore her. "It is, Cindy," he agrees, and places a hand on her shoulder. "Come on," he says as the door opens and a blast of warm air enters the loft. "Let's talk as we walk."

Cindy nods.

"At home," she says conversationally, "there is no fire escape."

Baffled, Collins begins, "But city law – "

"Apparently," says Cindy, "we're working under the policy _fuck city law_."

Pretending not to notice the uncharacteristic (as far as he knows) swear word, Collins inquires, "But then how'd they build it? Surely they wouldn't issue a grant…"

"Whatever," she says with a shrug. "Seems they did. Anyways, it meant I could never go outside."

He gasps, and with good reason. "_Never_?" he demands. "You mean – _never _never, as in absolutely never, or just never as in very rarely?"

"The former," Cindy says, wowing him yet again with her vocabulary. Yes, he thinks to himself, the girl certainly _has _read a lot of books, _To Kill A Mockingbird _being only one of them. And yes, he is impressed with that small revelation, that Cindy has read so emotional a book at such a young age. He himself didn't begin tackling the classics until he was fifteen or so, and even then was scornful of many.

Then again, sometimes literature is the only tactic to which one may turn, particularly in cases of utter desperation and a need to do _something_. Cindy, then, uses literature as an escape, just as Roger uses music and girls (seemingly interchangeably), and Maureen uses public protests. Benny and Collins himself, however, present more confusion. While Benny can be inserted into the category of individuals for whom no escape is needed, Collins is unsatisfied. Everyone needs _something_… perhaps it is confidence.

And then, now that abstract "things" are permitted, Collins' own escape can simply be knowledge. It is broad, very general, but to know things is relief and delight all rolled into one for him. For example, he would be far more comfortable to already know the outcome of the trial. For some – Maureen, for instance – this would be dubbed a spoiler, but for Collins it is one of life's oft-denied pleasures.

It is ten-fifteen when the five adults and two children – rather, one child and one new adolescent – reach the courthouse to which they walked. Unsettling is the fact that while Joanne is present, reviewing notes in the lobby, Jacob is very noticeably _not _in attendance. Cindy notices this as well and, though inclined to comment on it, decides to keep her mouth shut and continue observing – a skill that, later in life, Mark will learn and adore as well.

"Oh, hello," Joanne says mildly upon looking up and making eye contact with her former clients. "Are you all prepared?"

Teeth gritted, answering only because he knows that nobody else will, Roger curtly jerks his head up and down in an unwitting mockery of a nod. "Yes," he says coolly. "And you?"

"Absolutely," she says, and as though to demonstrate, she closes her binder and lays it on her lap. She checks her watch next and declares, much to Roger's horror, "Fifteen minutes left."


	28. We're All Winners, Either Way

It is strange and (in Roger's opinion) not at all funny how quickly fifteen minutes can dissolve into ten, then five, and before long – zero. The same occurs with the "fifteen minutes left" prior to the trial – in what seems like a split second, Jacob Cohen strides into the room, hair greased back with a briefcase in his hand, which he proffers to Joanne.

"Thank you," she replies serenely, and forms a tiny exclusive group with Jacob, indicating certain lines in various documents and asking questions, often pointing at certain members of Roger's group in query. It is in the middle of this outrageously elite proceeding that the door opens once more, and Mimi – her face flecked with make-up so intense that Roger has a difficult time realizing that she is a person, at first, let alone Mimi Marquez – enters. Her sweeping gray dress – better suited for an upper-class dinner party than a trial regarding child abuse – draws everyone's eyes.

The clock strikes eleven. Everyone looks up, including Mark, whose earlier declaration is now succeeded by a "It's 'leven."

"You can tell time?" Roger asks, momentarily caught off-guard.

Mark shakes his head. "Just guessed," he says with a shrug.

Maureen makes a sound that resembles an _aww_, but chances are that she would prefer not to make a display so oozing with cuteness in so professional a setting. In the end, it is lucky she didn't, because a young man pokes his head out of the doorway to Courtroom Six and announces, "Davis, et. al. v. Cohen?"

A shiver runs down Roger's spine – and not only because his hair is wet. Hearing so formal a description of what is doubtlessly going to affect the rest of his (and Mark's) life, he feels nausea bubbling in his throat. The next thing he feels is, thankfully, not vomit dripping onto the shiny hardwood floor, but cool hands holding one of his own. Collins.

"Roger, man," says Collins in a slight whisper, "It's going to be okay. All right? It's going to be okay."

As Mimi and Jacob huffily brush past Collins, Roger, and the rest of their party, Roger nods uncertainly. "Yeah," he says, and stares at his feet.

"Come on," says Collins. "Let's get this started. Maybe we can be done by two."

"Verdict today?" inquires Maureen.

Collins makes a face. "Preferably not," he says. "That'd mean they haven't entirely thought it over."

Joanne peeks her head over to the group. "Verdict today," she says in a sing-song tone, and it is all Maureen can do to keep from lunging at the woman she once considered dating. Now – not a chance, she thinks to herself, and would share that thought had at that very moment a man not strode into the room and cleared his throat loudly.

"I," he declares, "have a date in seven hours. Proceed."

As he sits down, several weak laughs sound from around the room. The man who now seats himself in the juror's chair contorts his face oddly. "My," he says mildly. "This is more serious than I thought, isn't it?"

"That," says Maureen irritably, "is a bit of an understatement."

Benny nudges her.

"Your Honor," she adds.

The man sighs deeply. "Okay, lawyer for whoever Davis is, get up here."

When the expected three people approach the stands, the judge gives Roger a mutinous look. "You don't have an attorney?" he demands.

"No, Your Honor," Roger says. "I'm Davis. Uh – Roger. Roger Davis."

A deep, exasperated sigh.

"Go on," says the judge tiredly to Roger, and he goes on indeed.

After introductory statements on behalf of both "attorneys," Roger begins by direct-examining, which is a blessing and a curse in itself. Direct-examining, or asking the questions of one's own witness, involves a great deal of care for one who is neither a lawyer nor a particularly cautious person in general. Roger, who is neither of these things and is usually extremely passionate and comfortable among his friends, keeps his bottom teeth on his tongue at all times, to cut himself off if necessary.

Collins is the first witness, because he has always excelled at setting a precedent, and because Roger needs someone to calm his nerves. _Why_, he asks himself, _didn't I let Collins do this… question-thing_? He knows the answer, but is too stressed to even consider answering it for himself.

The questions, following the inductation of the new witness, come pouring out of Roger's mouth like lava out of an active volcano, rolling over snags like rocks and the occasional human being. "Witness, please state your name."

"Tom Collins," the philosopher replies pleasantly.

Roger nods. "That was, um, just for show," he whispers to his friend, because he is in the state of mind where he believes that every move he makes is scrutinized and misunderstood, much like a writer in using an unconventional series of words, or an actor intentionally stumbling over his lines.

"I know, Roger," Collins responds, and across the room, Cohen whispers something to Joanne. _Probably an objection_, Collins thinks irritably. _Why the fuck does Roger have to whisper? _But no, much to his surprise, Joanne does not stand up and deliver an objection. She merely shakes her head to her client and continues watching.

"Um," mumbles Roger, underlining words in his index cards with sweaty palms and fingertips. "Yeah. Right. Can you describe the day on which we first met the subject of this trial – Mark Cohen?"

Collins smiles cheekily. "Sure can," he says charmingly, and begins to describe the day in what is truly vivid detail. "We were supposed to meet our buddy Benny at the Life Café, this place on Tenth and B with really great food, and you were taking forever. Probably jacking off in your anime boxers, I don't know."

Snickers ring around the room, but in so formal a setting, not even Roger would dare to punch his friend in the shoulder or make a loud protest. He grits his teeth and continues to allow Collins his "monologue." "So, anyways, when you finally hurried the hell up and got outside with me, you were acting like a baby and started running. And you tripped over this homeless guy, except when you looked over at the guy, you saw he wasn't really a homeless guy – he was a five-year-old kid who kept apologizing for tripping you. Which, sorry, Roger, was totally your fault. So you said it was your fault, and then the kid said his father sent him to sit with the trash. We felt really bad, and knew how much of a scumbag his father had to be. Also, his ribs were visible 'cause he was starving, so we took him to breakfast with us. Actually, he said his father said that to eat was a sin, 'cause he didn't deserve food. So of course we got him food."

Jacob, who never heard this story previously and is irritable at having not been notified of the circumstances, growls low in his throat upon the conclusion of Collins' story. It is worse than he thought – the act itself was not a kidnapping, but rather an act of compassion and kindness. _Joanne, you'd better be up for this_, thinks Cohen, trying to control his fury without grabbing Mark by the neck and pounding him against the wall, as he has done on many an occasion.

"Thank you," says Roger curtly, and moves on. "Please describe," he says deliberately, "the quirks in Mark's demeanor that you found to be uncommon."

Understanding the instruction, unlike many others, Collins replies smoothly, "Well, Mark had a great deal of eccentricities. For instance, he was often asking about what he pronounced as 'pun'shmit,' which in his book was the consequence for behaviors like speaking out of turn, _eating_, and harboring or voicing his own opinions."

"I see," responds Roger, and it is very clear to everyone how frustrated Cohen is. Said abuser has his elbow propped up on the table and his head buried in his palm. Mumbles of how hopeless his case is sound throughout the room, and Joanne looks like she is suppressing a tiny smile.

The questioning proceeds from there, such as when Roger asks Collins to please describe the revelations made leading up to and during Mark's first bath. "Exhibit A," presented at that point, is Mark himself as he is carried forward by Maureen and has his wounds exposed. Gasps are heard throughout the room, and something – just _something _– makes it very obvious that the scars and scratches are not from Roger's hands, or in fact Collins', Maureen's, Angel's, or Benny's.

Although Jacob would very much like to have Joanne object and state that there is no solid evidence as to the fact that the beatings might or might not have been from his own hands, he knows that nobody would believe his helpless acts of desperation. Why, he wonders, is he even so desperate as he is to restore Mark to his own hands? As a punching bag, the five-year-old is useless. His body is too small and his immune system too weak for him to be exposed to any circumstances _too _sadistic. Cindy is much more useful, but of course, if Mark is granted an exit from the Cohen family, there is no doubt that Cindy will be as well. The tiniest of downfalls for Jacob then erupts into an enormous crisis, as without children to protect, Mimi will leave him as well, and… well, the whole situation will be very bad.

However, there isn't a whole lot Jacob can do. Roger breezes through the rest of his direct-examination, talking to his friends as casually as he might in a living room setting, except that he is very obviously uncomfortable in his suit, and he probably does not appreciate having his hair gelled back as it is. Other than that, however, Roger seems at ease and at home in this situation. Jacob envies him greatly.

Cross-examination for Joanne is tricky. She clicks her heels against the hardwood floor and calls Roger up first. Typically in such cases she would call up the subject first (here, Mark), but she neglects to do so on the grounds that she is desperately hoping that she will not have to. She would, after all, like to be paid, and after hearing his son's opinion of him, Jacob may or may not elect to skip the whole "payment thing" as he does with his rent.

"Witness," she says delicately to the already-fuming Roger. Her thoughts are mainly comprised of the questions she might ask, results as disastrous as possible – the more potential there is for chaos, the better. She settles on "When did you first meet Mr. Cohen?"

Joanne knows the answer perfectly well – that disaster at the Hamptons was the most confounding thing she has ever heard of – but, like all lawyers, knows that asking questions one does not know the answer to can only lead to utter chaos. More chaos than she intends at the moment, because she is aiming for _controlled _chaos. This is certainly what she gets, because Roger's reply is, "At the Hamptons. I brought my friends and Mark, and we saw Cohen there, and he started freaking out on us. Oh, and," he says, going beyond the limits of the question but wanting to add something he neglected to say during his personal testimony, "it was right after that when Cindy over there – " here he points to Cindy, who has already been direct-examined and will be crossed very soon – "appeared at my door begging for sanctuary."

Although that is a bit of an exaggeration, Joanne feels that it is for the best, considering her current goal. "Thank you, Roger," she says, and moves on with more questions. From there she proceeds to questioning Collins, Angel, and – _twang! _go her heartstrings – Maureen. Cindy follows, and yet again is Mark ignored. When Joanne returns to her seat, declaring, "The defense rests," Cindy and Mark escort themselves out of the room. Mimi enters. She is, apart from Jacob, the defense's only witness.

Upon figuring this out, a collective sigh of relief circulates the room, leaving no exceptions. Maureen, Angel, and Collins – all of whom have the ability and opportunity to leave but lacking the desire to do as such – are now huddled together on a bench of their own, eyes alert and ears attentive.

For Joanne, direct-examination is always a simple matter. It is merely an issue of managing to phrase one's questions in such a way that observers cannot see the hints and silently communicated words, but the witness can. With Mimi and Jacob being as slow yet somewhat intelligent as they are, this may present small difficulties, but it is not likely to be as challenging as Joanne's last case, in which she dealt with uneducated teenage triplets testifying against their sexually abusive father.

In this instance, Jacob is the first to be direct-examined, and he is cheeky all the way through; his remarks occasionally offend the judge and often enough come his jabs at Roger (et. al.) and Angel above all the others. He carefully censors himself, however, eliminating profanity and any and all insults that would otherwise be directed towards Mark and Cindy. That, at least, Joanne considers to be appropriate.

Mimi is another story altogether. Direct-examining her is like direct-examining a mouse. She refuses to speak up or voice her own opinions, both serious problems in a court setting, and had the opposing side possessed a competent attorney, Mimi would have received countless objections already on the grounds of hearsay. She constantly parrots Jacob, word-for-word in some cases and others with a jab toward her source, who shoots her looks that assumedly mean "stop it." Mimi, however, either does not understand what she is doing wrong or does not know how to stop, because she continues.

Cross-examination on Roger's part proves to merit even more caution than did the direct-examination. With the first witness, however, caution is hardly necessary; Mimi, with whom Roger is currently enraged, brings about only the slightest tug at Roger's heartstrings. Or so he believes, anyway.

"Witness," he says dryly, "State your name, please."

Then he remembers belatedly that Joanne already covered this, and his cheeks redden. "Um. Sorry," he mumbles, and searches his head for a new question. "Oh, yeah. How did Mr. Cohen treat his children, to your knowledge, while you were living with the three of them?"

Mimi pales.

Roger, not knowing why this comes as a shock to her, presses the question. He knows that this is what is known as harassing the witness, but he also knows that Joanne is "going easy on him." No objections thus far have been made, and if anything should be said, it should be against Mimi's practice of hearsay and whispering her answers and being dishonest.

In the end, however, her dishonesty means nothing. The judge sighs a deep sigh before Mimi can answer Roger's first question and loudly points out that "I think we all know Cohen's abusive."

There is a general murmur of assent.

This trial, though nothing like anyone's initial suspicions of it, is actually rather pleasant.

"The jury," says the judge about ten minutes later, after concluding statements have been delivered and the last of the cross-examination done, "is conferring. A verdict will be made in approximately one hour."

Fifty-nine minutes have never passed in such utter silence and tension. By the time the judge returns, nails have been bitten down to the quick, and crescent indentures have been made in every bohemian's palm. Fingers and palms are pinkish-red fading to a pale flesh color, most likely from the extraordinarily tight hand-holding that had been going on during the "wait" period. But now that the waiting is over, normal color is restored in the hands (though not in the cheeks) as the judge returns with his answer.

"Well," he says, "the jury has come to its verdict."

"What is it?" yells Roger from the back, unable to contain himself.

The judge answers him.


	29. Poised To Defend

"The jury finds in favor of the plaintiff, and will transfer the children Mark and Cindy Cohen to the custody of plaintiffs Roger Davis, et. al. immediately. "

The words hardly mean anything to Roger, at first. Momentarliy he forgets the words defendant and guilty, or at least confuses plaintiff and defendant. When a split second later he is suffocated by hugs of his friends, he is abruptly reminded of the words' meanings. Four pairs of strong arms embrace Roger: Angel's, Collins', Benny's, and Maureen's. A moment later, however, another pair of arms wraps itself around Roger's leg. He tilts his head backward and upside down to see Mimi standing beside Mark, who is clutching Roger's leg and crying.

"Marky, what's wrong?" Roger asks tenderly, tearing away from his friends to look the little boy in the eye. "Tell me what's bothering you."

Mark sniffles and rubs his arm sideways over his eyes and nose. "Not sad," he tells Roger, his voice unexpectedly clear. No one listening in on Mark's conversation could tell that his throat is blocked by tears. More conversationally, sounding very like an adult and yet using words only a child could, Mark observes, "Didn't know you could cry when you're happy. But I'm happy'n I'm crying."

Roger hoists Mark into the air, cradles him in his arms, and squeezes tight. Mark, who is usually largely opposed to extreme physical contact, does not flinch away but rather buries his face in Roger's chest and lets his tears flow into the suit that will (probably) never be worn again. Roger blindly gropes in the air, trying to grab the coat of either Benny or Collins, but finds clasped in his hand a lilac hankerchief.

Again he meets Mimi's chocolate-colored eyes, and Roger glares at her. "Look, if you want to have sex, I'm not in the mood," he tells her bluntly. "Me and my friends just _beat _you. Okay? It's like high school again. Go run along to your sugar daddy, why don't you?"

"That's not what I'm here for," Mimi tells him, and she tugs on Roger's sleeve. "Come on," she insists. "Come talk to me."

"Not now," Roger tells her firmly. "I'll meet you somewhere. I'll meet you… how's Washington Square Park sound?" Ah, Washington Square. It is the home of Roger's ex-dealer, the site at which he met April Ericcson, and the place where Roger first kissed said girl. It holds memories that are wonderful in their nature but tragic when one considers the death of the subject, and thus they are neutral.

"Fine," replies Mimi. "Eleven?"

Roger shakes his head. "Nine. By the chess tables."

Mimi walks off, her head down. Roger knows in his heart that she has nowhere to go, and it is for that reason only that he has granted her an audience with him later. However, it does not stop him from murmuring in Collins' ear, asking if he could please go with him to the park, because Mimi might try something weird. Collins agrees, but only after pointing out how paranoid city-bred boys can be. Roger takes this as a compliment.

Jacob is not seen after the declaration of the verdict. Instead, Mark is the center of attention, cradled in Roger's arms and surrounded by Maureen, Benny, Angel and Collins. Trailing behind is Cindy, watching with a skeptical eye the treatment of her baby brother. Collins, who understands that Cindy will always have a watchful eye on anyone handling little Mark, ruffles her hair before grabbing the front door of a restaurant and pulling it open. "Ladies first," he says, allowing entrance to Angel, Maureen and Cindy before Benny, Roger and Mark, and finally himself.

Mark beams when he is sat down at the table. "Daddy used to not lemme eat," he says, and it is well-known that this is not the first the bohemians have heard of this. However, it is with an enormous smile that Mark now says, "I c'n eat wh'never I want now."

"Who told you that?" asks Roger in awe, because it is very truthful and it is doubtful that Mark understands the words "verdict," "plaintiff," "defendant," and the like.

Cindy blushes. "Me," she says, and stares at her unopened menu. She is not Mark; she knows that she is allowed to eat in this company, mainly because she knows a fair amount of information regarding social dynamics, and knows that people like Roger (et. al.) do not abuse children the way assholes like her father do. And yes, in Cindy's mind, Jacob is an "asshole." This is not because she is a particularly profane young lady, but because there is no other word to describe the man.

"Good job," says Roger, and slaps her on the back. Cindy winces, but knows that by that Roger meant no harm, and smiles weakly. Maybe the musician isn't all bad, she muses begrudgingly, and decides to look at possible meals before coming to any more life-changing conclusions. (She eventually selects a tuna sandwich, because Mimi is a particularly adapt "tuna chef," and thus Cindy is used to having excellent tuna. Also, although she does not admit this to herself consciously, Cindy knows that this sandwich is among the cheapest items on the menu – six dollars.)

The waiter arrives, and orders are taken. Mark and Roger are sharing an enormous platter of some sort, and as the other bohemians order, various large bills are slapped on the table. "I'm getting government-funded child support," Roger sings gleefully. "Cindy, get something good. Get her – " he turns to the waiter – "get her a virgin whiskey sour. In fact, get us all those, except make just two of them virgins. 'Kay?"

"Just two of _us _are virgins," points out Maureen in between chewing her gum, but Collins whispers something in her ear and a horrified Maureen closes her mouth. Cindy watches her stonily.

Roger looks at Mark and says, his eyes huge, "I love you, kid."

"I love you too, Roger," and even though it is not the first time he has said it, this time Mark's declaration of love is accompanied by a very sweet kiss on Roger's cheek. For a moment Mark looks like a real unscarred five-year-old, like the little boys that advertise Gap Kids and The Children's Place. In truth, however, with his blue eyes so icy and frame so malnourished, it is a true rarity for Mark to look like a "normal" child.

"I love you, Mark!" screams Maureen, sounding as she does when attending rock shows. Benny echoes the sentiment almost immediately, followed simultaneously by Collins and Angel. (Recognizing their in-unison declaration, Collins and Angel share a tender kiss.)

Seven larger-than-average shot glasses clatter to the table, each filled with sour mix, although a few of them lack the vital whiskey to make the drink truly enjoyable. Mark shies away from the sour taste, sticking to his ice water, but Cindy gulps it down in three easy sips, takes a swig from Maureen's shot glass, and declares, "I like it better _with _the whiskey."

The ice is broken, and thirteen-year-old Cindy is officially a bohemian, like her brother and maybe – just maybe – her former "babysitter"-slash-"nursemaid."

Lunch ends quickly, mainly because after drinking so many new shots, the bohemians have little room for actual food and opt instead to take their Styrofoam containers home. (Sometimes, when no leftovers remain from their dishes from eating out, they merely request the Styrofoam just so Roger and Collins can entertain themselves by poking holes into the material and making fake snow. Now, however, fake snow is unnecessary; as Mark glances towards the window, he gasps.

It's only September.

New York hasn't had so early a winter in years. Late, certainly, but never early.

And yet here come the first few flakes. It seems impossible, and perhaps it is, but that doesn't stop tiny flecks of snow tumbling to the ground. "It's snowing," Mark announces in his tiny voice, and sure enough, it is.

True, it was briefly snowing recently, on the day of Mark's "makeover," but not like this. This is really _snowing_. Pressed against the wall of the diner are two teenagers, a small girl and a burly blond boy, whose lips press against each other's for a brief moment prior to their abrupt seperation. Cindy watches, transfixed, and Roger comments snarkily, "Teenagers don't know what they're getting into."

"Aww," coos Maureen, "Roger's mad 'cause he liked Mimi and now she's an asswhore."

Collins starts laughing, but then double-takes and looks at Maureen, half-amused and half-shocked. "Did you just say 'asswhore?'" he demands.

"Yes," she says smugly. "And?"

Collins shakes his head, grumbles a little to himself, and leans back in his chair.

"Hey," Roger says abruptly, "would anyone mind if we go walking in Washington Square? We can get Mark that ice cream we promised him."

This is deemed a good idea, and so, much to the relief of the diner manager, the bohemians exit.

Some things differ from the bohemians' current visit to Washington Square Park than their last one. For example, Roger upon his last visit took the time to visit his dealer, but now, to everyone's relief, he smoothly walks on by. For another, Maureen does not look at anyone other than her companions, uninterested in matters of the lips and exposed skin for the time being. (Matters of the heart, she knows, are very different than matters of the _sex._ Having no problem at all with loving her friends, Maureen still no longer wishes to be a part of a romantic partnership, at least for now, because she is either tired of fondling others or of having to conform to another's expectations. It is quite a change.)

The one thing that remains the same is Collins and Angel's undying passion for each other. As the two straddle one another on a park bench, Angel, not even noticing the uncomfortable nature of her oddly-tailored men's pants, trails her fingers up Collins' shirt seductively.

Maureen and Benny talk quietly off to the side, with Cindy lurking behind them due to her irrational apprehension towards Roger. Although this Cindy-Roger tension may be dying, it is still somewhat present, and she does not wish to be too close to him for the time being.

Mark and Roger are engaged in a very complex talk, telling what appears to be a fantasy story of their own creations. "And then," Roger says energetically, under his breath, "Prince Mark met the beautiful princess – or prince, 'cause, you know, you could be like Maureen who likes her own gender, I don't know – and gave – uh, the prince or princess a huge kiss on the forehead and said 'I love you.'"

"Like I love you?" Mark asks Roger innocently.

Roger coughs. "No. Differently."

"Oh, okay."

Several hours pass, and at last, Roger tears himself away from the group. "I'm meeting Mimi," he says, and he and Collins walk about three steps before being stopped by Maureen.

"You're going _without _us?" she demands.

"Well, that was the general idea of it, yeah," Roger says. "Glad you noticed."

"Isn't happening," Maureen snaps. "Why would you even want to? Do you _looooove _her?"

"No!" Roger yells.

With a satisfied smirk, Maureen falls into stride alongside Roger. "Then you shouldn't have a problem with everyone else's presence, should you?"

Roger grumbles something indecipherable – rhyming with "pluck stew" – and begins walking towards the arranged meeting place. Although he would never admit it aloud, he is comforted by the familiar footsteps accompanying him, like a rock climber comforted by the thought of the people fifty feet below, ready to catch him if necessary.


	30. Wishing On A Star

"Do you like her?"

Roger spins around on his toes and demands, "Who said that?"

"Chill, Roger," Benny says lightly. "I thought Collins was the hard-ass teacher, not you."

Reflexively, Roger tells Benny to "muck shloff" and continues striding forward towards where he is expecting to meet Mimi. Sure enough, as the bohemians and mini-bohemians reach said location, there is the tiny dancer's frame huddled on a bench, shrouded by her own wavy dark hair. Too lost in reminiscing to be upset just now – that was the exact bench where he first shot up, and here it is now occupied by traitorous little Mimi – Roger takes a moment to recognize the girl. When he does, he takes several steps forward before Mimi notices him, and raising her eyes to meet Roger's, she flinches back against the bench.

"Put the needle down and nobody gets hurt," Benny drawls from towards the back of the group. And yes, resting in the several inches of space between Mimi's legs _is _a needle, along with a spoon and some liquid that Roger has taken to pretend not to notice.

Mimi, shivering, allows it to clatter to the ground in exchange for being handed Benny's suit jacket. She drapes it around herself backwards, pulling the sleeves over her front and letting it hang loose in the back. "Thanks," she rasps. It isn't even that cold, but Roger supposes that for a frail _teenager _like Mimi, it must be.

"Okay," he says firmly. "What do you want?"

Mimi is quiet.

"What do you _want_?" Roger repeats.

Mimi whimpers. "Jacob paid my rent," she whispers.

Roger looks on at her emotionlessly. He plans on saying nothing, but something tells Maureen that if Roger is not going to speak, she may as well. So she does. "Mimi, look, you can't have friends that don't trust you. I know you're fresh out of high school and you thought that secrets and drama were fun, but that's not how it's like in the real world."

"Don't talk to me like I'm five," snaps Mimi. "You think I don't know that?"

Stung, Maureen takes a step back. "Anyone else wanna take a crack at her?"

Roger does. He scoops Mark into his arms and brandishes the boy in front of Mimi. "You see the beatings? See how skinny he is? Know how scared he is of being hit? And see _this_?" he spins Mark around and pulls up his shirt to reveal the long scar Mark has as a result of his most severe punishment. When Mimi looks down, Roger straightens Mark's shirt and sets him back on the ground, satisfied. "That's the man you sided with."

"Or I'd be on the _street_!" Mimi protests.

"Yeah, and it was warm up 'till today." Stony-eyed and monotonous, Roger fixes Mimi with a cold stare. _Get out of this one_.

As she curls into a tighter ball, Mimi mumbles, "Leave me alone."

"Not happ'ning," Angel says before anyone can get in a word. "Mimi, I know you're young and I know you don't think about stuff, and you're used to pretending you have people to fall back on, but the fact is, unless you move back in with your parents, you're on your own. You're responsible for your own actions now. Sometimes it's good to have comforts like shelter and rent and pretty good sex. But other times, it's more important to make the _right _choice – to be not as safe on the streets, or maybe cold, but not supporting a child abuser. Don't you think?"

Mimi nods tentatively. "But like you said, it isn't safe. I could get murdered, or raped, or – "

"Sure you could," Maureen agrees. "But think of it this way, Mimi. What stops Jacob from doing the same to you?"

Mimi shakes her head. "It's the same there, you're right. There's sex, and usually I don't want it. But at least he has comforts like a reliable house. It's pros and cons, and the pros in this case happen to beat out the negatives." After a momentary pause, she adds, "Plus, when I'm there, he's less hard on Cindy and Mark."

"That's a lie and you know it," Cindy snaps, startling everyone. "True, when you're there he doesn't… doesn't do to me what he does to you, but he hits us and yells at us more, because even if you're silent, it's like you're egging him on."

Mark nods solemnly. It is doubtful that he completely understands what is going on, but he makes a valiant effort to support his sister.

"Past tense," says Collins abruptly. "He _hit _you and _yelled _at you more. You're not going back there."

Cindy allows herself to smile. "Thanks."

"No problem," he replies.

Mimi flushes, angry that she is being ignored. "I can stay in my apartment for a little while longer," she continues, "or I _could_, if the lease wasn't in Jacob's name. He didn't even live there, but since he paid the rent it was in his name. They're already opening the apartment up to the public."

Everyone turns to Roger.

His jade eyes still ablaze, Roger sighs deeply. "I don't want to let you stay with us," he says, "but I'm not a total asshole. You can sleep on our floor, and you're paying a portion of the rent for the month, even if you're only here for a few days."

"Deal," replies Mimi, whose Catscratch wages aren't half as bad as most people think they are.

"And one more thing," says Roger, catching her by the shoulder before she can stand up.

Mimi tilts her chin up towards him, suggesting silently that nothing he can add to this would make her change her mind.

"You're gonna have to get over your little crush on me. 'Cause it's annoying and I don't like you."

Mimi laughs. "Now who's in high school?" she teases. The ice is broken from there, and she rises from the bench to follow everyone else towards the apartment, group head by Mark and Cindy Davis-Johnson-Schunard-Coffin-Collins. The evening's first star appears in the sky just as the door to the apartment is flung open, and Mark tilts his head backwards and wishes that the evening's serenity, community, and overall mutual love could last forever.


	31. Epilogue

One week later, Mark starts school for the first time. It takes some convincing for Roger to put the five-year-old in his kindergarten class and assure him that nobody bites, but after a while Mark finds himself engrossed enough in the crayons for Roger, Maureen, Collins, Benny, and Angel to casually slip out the door. It is an hour later when Mark notices that his famly has left, but by that time there are cookies.

In kindergarten one day, Mark is asked to draw a picture of his family and present it to the class, along with an explanation as to who each figure is. He begins by drawing a little blue person with yellow lines sticking out of his head. Next to him is a green figure, curly yellow hair draped from his head and an oddly-positioned triangle beside it that may be a guitar.

On Mark's other side is a purple figure, probably Cindy, with long blonde lines running down from her head. Beside her is the dark-haired Angel beside dark-skinned Collins, hands touching one another's and eyes huge as they try to meet each other's eyes.

Next to Roger is Maureen, orange and brown squiggles decorating the top of her hair and shimmying down to her shoulders. She stands beside Benny, and on his other side is Mimi, who has an enormous smile that matches Angel's. On Mark's face are his brand-new glasses, purchased by a delighted Collins immediately after being told that he landed a last-minute teaching job at Columbia University.

When Mark shows his drawing to the class, he is tentative at first. ("Um, hi, this is me, right here, and this is my family. The green one is Roger, he's my daddy, and so is Benny and Collins, the two guys with the brown faces'n stuff. My mommies are Mimi and Maureen and Angel – Angel's next to Collins'n Mimi and Maureen's next to Benny. My sister's Cindy, she's the purple one right there.) After all, it is decidedly difficult to follow Billy Jefferson's presentation, featuring three children, one mommy, and one daddy. (Mark's comments on Billy's family: "That's weird.") But soon enough he is comfortable, and the applause following his presentation is particularly energetic from his classmates, all of whom believe that it is quite something for a kid to have so many mommies and daddies.

When Hanukkah rolls around, Cindy has a hurried conversation with Maureen and Roger about how the holiday was never celebrated in the Cohen household, and that they shouldn't to the trouble of celebrating it. A compromise is made: although Hanukkah is not observed, and Christmas does not intersect with it at all because Hanukkah begins on December the fourth, eight candles are lit on the twenty-fourth of December and strung on the Christmas tree. Cindy smiles, satisfied, and decides not to explain Hanukkah to Mark just yet.

Presents? Yes, presents. With Collins, Maureen, Benny and Mimi holding steady jobs and Angel street-performing, enough income is brought in for everyone to purchase presents for just about everyone. Essentially, each bohemian lays some money on the kitchen table on the last shopping day before Christmas, and all who still need to purchase gifts subtly take as much as they need and go buy them. Amid many other presents, Mark's favorite gift – from Roger, of course – is a blue and white scarf that drapes around his neck and brushes the floor. He doesn't mind that it's too big. He is assured that he will grow into it.

Time passes. The children are still stable, growing up with the best role models, guardians, and parental figures imaginable. On Mother's Day, Mark and Cindy present Maureen, Angel, and Mimi with cards declaring their love, and on Father's Day, Roger and Collins and Benny receive cards and presents as well. July the fourth is celebrated with the eight bohemians lying on the roof, squinting to see the fireworks displays at nearby parks. Never would they even consider actually _going _to one of the parks, because after all, that's where all the tourists go. Roger knows that with two kids and an extended group of friends in their early-to-mid twenties, he is sure to look like a tourist in any untypical but publicized New York scenario. So he is slightly self-conscious in that respect.

School starts again. This time Mark is in first grade, and he learns how to write and read and add small numbers like three and four to equal slightly bigger numbers like seven. Cindy, in tenth grade now, is taught things surprisingly similar to Mark's own learnings, except that the books she reads are much thicker, with fading covers and memorable titles like Brave New World. (Sitting on one of the loft's many shelves is a school copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, passed among the bohemians and waiting until Mark is old enough to understand it. The book will never return to the school, which is perfectly fine, because by tenth grade most people have read it anyway.)

Two years later, when Mark is seven and Cindy fifteen, Benny breaks up with his girlfriend Alison. He nearly immediately afterward begins a relationship with Maureen, which is surprisingly stable. As though doing her best – Maureen? Doing her best? – Maureen stops ogling passing individuals of either sex, which Benny takes as a good sign. He takes it as a bad sign that Maureen elects to attend Cindy's parent-teacher conference (scheduled to last from eight-thirteen to eight-seventeen) and stays until eleven. Cindy later tells Benny confidentially that the teacher in question came to class the next day with a much brighter attitude than in days past.

But in spite of a few minor roadblocks, such as Benny and Maureen's heated on-and-off relationship where each day is either a break-up, a reunion, or both, life rolls on. Mark brings home glowing progress reports and papers stamped with A-plusses. Cindy, though occasionally returning to the loft with inexplicable tangles in her hair and bruised lips, flourishes in school as well.

It is Cindy's romantic progress that concerns Maureen, and so she and Mimi take the young adolescent aside for a brief talk while nearly-eight-year-old Mark sits with Benny and Roger, shifting in his seat as he is taught about girls. At eight, Mark has no idea why anyone would have an interest in girls, and thinks that maybe Angel and Maureen and Mimi have it right, picking out males instead. The again, Mark thinks to himself, they're _girls_. Except then there was that time he accidentally walked in on Angel in the shower…

Growing steadily more confused, a ten-year-old Mark seeks out Collins at last for some answers. He enters the room utterly bewildered and exits much the same way, save for the fact that upon his exit, his eyes are wide and his hand rests over a particular organ, staring down in shock.

When Mark is almost eleven, Roger decides that Mark needs a hobby. A passion, in fact. According to Roger, everyone has a passion, and if Mark is an exception, it means that he is a yuppie. ("Roger," jokes Collins from across the room, "don't swear around the kid.") So as Roger and Mark run around the city in search of something Mark can love, Collins sits with Cindy and helps her look through potential colleges. Her high school grades are such that she should, he tells her, get admitted to Columbia if that is her desired route. Cindy tells him in no uncertain terms that of course she will apply, and if "by some miracle" she is admitted, she would like nothing more than to be in Collins' class. They hug, and that is that. The applications go out the following week.

At around the same time that Collins returns from Columbia with an envelope in his hand (addressed, of course, to Cindy Davis-Johnson-Schunard-Coffin-Collins), Mark and Roger return from their search with empty pockets but with a sparkling box in Mark's hands. "You open it first," Mark tells his sister, but her fingers are trembling, and so the envelope is handed to Angel, whose nails are the longest and who contributed greatly to the writing of Cindy's entrance essay.

But nobody is so bold as to unfold the paper inside, so it is set upside-down on the table as Mark opens the box and reveals a shiny camera, probably twenty years old but still enough to captivate the eleven-year-old's attention. As he shows the different capabilities of the camera – apparantly it can film _and _take still shots – Cindy's eyes flicker back to her letter. Mark, catching the hint, switches the camera onto the option to videograph, and zooms in on the single page.

_Accepted_.

Could it be anything else?

As he films the celebration that follows, Mark feels a shivery feeling that probably relates either to his excitement at having the camera or his nerves at knowing that there are only about seven years left until he has the same burden to bear. It is with that new burst of enthusiasm that he returns to school that coming Monday and aces three tests and hands in every expected piece of homework. His next report card is glowing.

Eight people in the loft proves to be a bit much, so two months before the start of Cindy's freshman year of college, Collins accepts Columbia's offer for university housing at last, taking Angel and Cindy with him. It is, after all, only uptown; visits occur nightly, and Mark's eleventh birthday coincides with permission to take public transportation by himself. So he does, in fact, visiting Cindy, Angel and Collins whenever he has a spare second.

With a new feverish passion in film, Mark does not put his camera down for more than a single waking hour that does not take place in school. Although electronics are banned from Simon Baruch Junior High School, Mark takes no notice, and remains one of the many seventh-graders bringing a forbidden item into the building daily. At least, however, it is not a cell phone; the avant-garde new commodity has become wildly popular, and a few of Mark's wealthier classmates have taken to bringing their parents' devices of mobile communications to school. In Mark's case, his contraband has meaning to him, and even when the teachers catch flashes of the camera and camera bag hidden in Mark's shoulder-bag, they cannot muster up the cruelty required to confiscate it.

Eighth-graders in New York City are required to apply to one of the city's hundreds of high schools. The high schools come in all different kinds; there are those that focus on science and are reknowned throughout the country, those that appear to be relatively normal and very typical of _non_-New York areas, and those that focus on arts. It is the latter type, of course, that interests Mark, and so he very wisely fills up his twelve choices with schools with an emphasis on things such as visual arts, photography – of course – and music. His guardians are tremendously proud of the not-so-much-a-five-year-old-anymore, although they all swear that they would have supported Mark even had he pursued a different option. (Whether this is true or not remains to be seen.)

Now with Mark having been twelve for five months and nearing the deadline for a Bar Mitzvah, Benny asks Mark if he would be interested in pursuing that particular route. Mark, who has grown up an incredible amount since the age of five, decisively replies in the negative and points out that it's not as though he had any friends who would want to go anyway. "Just wait 'till high school," Benny tells the boy, although he does suspect that high school may turn out to be even worse for him.

Cindy graduates from college precisely one month prior to Mark's graduation of junior high school, and on that day, the eight bohemians go out drinking – Mark is smuggled in with the group because admittedly, of the two Davis-Johnson-Schunard-Coffin-Collins children, Mark certainly looks older, and Cindy is, after all, twenty-one. Although her birthday was nearly a full year ago, Cindy does not hesitate to look the bartender in the eye, smiling seductively, and ask for what she claims is her "first alcoholic drink – let's make it a whiskey sour." She gives Mark several sips, and the thirteen-year-old proves to be a very easy drunk, needing to be carried home by a slightly agitated Benny that night.

Since Cindy has graduated, she moves back into the loft with two new, very obvious presences. One is her boyfriend Brad, a very anarchistic law school student – how's that for an oxymoron? – and the other is her degree in philosophy. Collins, now living back with the bohemians as well, often spends hours in Cindy's room, staring at her diploma and wondering what happened to the thirteen-year-old with no decided path in life? Nothing at all, in fact; even though Cindy is eight years older now, she has the same skeptical eyes as she scans the world and wonders if she will ever find her niche.

The next four years are relatively uneventful. The most startling event that takes place during that time is Cindy's marriage to the now-lawyer Brad, who is proud to have not given up his principles and remains a fan of the breaking-the-meter trick. He yearns for a position at Prewett & Hopkins, who is looking for a new partner in the absence of former lawyer Joanne Jefferson, now a waitress at a nearby café. (Rumor has it that Jefferson is known to commonly mutter to herself, "Where did I go wrong?" at random times, eyes wide and hands clasped together in puzzlement.)

When Mark graduates from high school, he spends the evening reminscing. At around midnight, he turns on all the lights in the loft and announces, "Everyone in the living room – now." (Roger cannot help but recall the nervous lisp of five-year-old Mark Cohen and is startled to find that there is no trace of that voice in seventeen-year-old Mark Davis-Johnson-Schunard-Coffin-Collins. It is certainly an improvement, however, because a decisive, assertive late adolescent is always more appreciated than five-year-old, no matter how cute he is. Certainly is the seventeen-year-old more appreciated by New York University, Mark's destination for the coming fall, to study film and remain comfortably in the loft.)

As Mark's seven – eight, including the nearly-unconscious Brad – loftmates pile onto couches and the floor, he sets up his camera and explains, "This is a film taken over the course of almost seven years." As a picture flickers onto the screen, it blares the words _Little Man_ on top, and on the line underneath, _A Mark Davis-Johnson-Schunard-Coffin-Collins Film_.

"This was the film you sent to NYU," Cindy realizes when the camera angling and styles prove to be the best she has ever seen on Mark's work. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah," Mark replies, and his mouth hangs slightly open. He was going to say something more, but forgets what it was as a single photograph appears on the screen, a still shot inserted into the footage. It is a picture of five-year-old Mark held by Roger, Benny and Collins and Maureen stationed nearby with thirteen-year-old smart-aleck Cindy hanging off to the side next to Angel.

Roger is just as transfixed by this picture as Mark is, and he breathes, "They took this at the trial."

Mark nods. "Yeah. This was what they put in the newspaper, remember?"

Angel, spotting the very masculine, yuppie-style outfit worn by her in the photograph, wrinkles her nose. Before she can critize her own getup, however, she lets the thought go and admits, "It's cute. It's adorable. I love it."

"You're not the only one," Maureen assures her, and she is followed by a chorus of mumbled agreement.

The final picture in the movie is live footage that features very little movement. It was filmed by Brad that very evening, and very swiftly inserted into the footage. In the picture, Mark has on his graduation cap, jeans, and a red-and-blue striped sweater, with his scarf hanging around his neck – the very scarf, in fact, that was given to him on the first Christmas he celebrated among the bohemians. Behind him is a beaming Roger, and on his either side are Angel and Cindy. Beside Angel, of course, is Collins. On Collins' other side is Maureen, and next to Cindy are Benny and Mimi. Everyone is smiling broadly.

When the picture is turned off, Roger stands up abruptly and motions for Mark to come over to him. Mark does so, and is surprised when Roger fiercely gives Mark a huge hug.

It is nothing at all like the hugs Mark has received from Roger in the past. Since Mark turned about ten, every hug Roger bestowed upon Mark was friendly and very masculine, usually one-armed and brief. Now, however, Mark is brought back to his early childhood as Roger squeezes the newly-graduated seventeen-year-old tightly. Mark hugs back, of course, his arms squeezing Roger as tight as he can. "I love you," Roger tells his "son," and releases Mark momentarily to give the graduate a kiss on the forehead.

"I love you too," Mark says.

Hugs go around the room, featuring everyone. Cindy stands off to the side, clutching Mark's camera in her hands and knowing that even though Mark is far too preoccupied to make any kind of comment, the boy surely would want this to be on film. So the hug-fest is documented.

When at last Mark collapses on the couch to sleep until maybe three the next day, he proclaims, "I love everyone. Everyone. I love everyone here so, so much," he says.

Nobody is surprised when in the afternoon of the next day, Mark wakes up without a familiar headache or bottles scattered on the floor. He spends a good twenty minutes peering out the window, gazing in awe at the familiar sidewalk square where he first met Roger.

Nobody, Mark decides – _Nobody _at NYU has a family like this.

FIN.


End file.
